Superman
by wouldtheywriteasongforyou
Summary: You're sitting by yourself. My brother and Hermione aren't by your side for once. I stare at you and feel this strange sort of tugging in my heart. I don't understand what's going on with me, so I blush and avoid your eyes when you notice me noticing you. Your name is Harry, but I think it should be Superman because you're here to save the day once again. Taylor Swift song.
1. First Year

**Author's Note: ****It's HarryxGinny because they are the main characters; NOT because they're romantically together (at the moment). Don't bitch at me to change the pairing because I won't do it.**  


**The only Disclaimer I will make for this story: "Superman" is on Taylor Swift's third album _Speak Now: Target Edition_. JKRowling owns Harry Potter. Infringe her and I'll Crucio your sorry ass. (:  
**

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**_First Year_**

The quiet clatter of silverware rings out through the mostly empty Great Hall. Maple syrup and the heavenly smell of coffee make my stomach turn into a hungry baby dragon. It's kind of early to be awake, but for some reason we both are. Not many other students are here eating breakfast. It is half past six in the morning on a weekend. Now that I think about it, I'm wondering why I am not currently snuggled under my blankets and fast asleep.

The Gryffindor table is strangely quiet in the early hours of the morning. Fred and George are not up to any mischief since they are the typical sort of teenagers who need thirty-six hours of sleep per day, so there's no pranking going on at the moment. Lavender Brown, that girl in your year who never shuts up, is not at the breakfast table either. With no inane gossiping going about, no one has any real reason to talk to each other.

You're sitting by yourself at the far end of the Gryffindor table. My brother and Hermione aren't by your side for once. I stare at you and feel this strange sort of tugging in my heart. I don't understand what's going on with me, so I blush and avoid your eyes when you notice me noticing you.

A few minutes go by, and as soon as I decree my face isn't the same colour as my hair anymore, I chance a look at you again. I study your trademark messy dark hair and your tall posture you manage to keep even when you are sitting down. I also note how you sort-of resemble that Muggle superhero in comic books. You know, the one who looks all super-manly. Is that his name? Superman? It sounds right. I think I'll call you that from now on.

You finish your last bite of chocolate chip pancakes and gulp down your chocolate milk. You catch my eye once more and give me a big, toothy grin. I giggle at your milk moustache and blush at the attention you're giving me.

Then you put your school papers into your book bag and stand up with a stretch as you get ready to walk away out of the Great Hall. You run a hand through your messy hair and adjust your glasses. You look like you're getting prepared to save the world (the fact that you are Harry Potter only enforces the image), but I know you are just preparing yourself to go to work on your boring school papers. Either way, it's the same thing to me. You wiggle your fingers at me in lieu of goodbye as you exit out the Great Hall.

Bye, Superman.

.

.

Months fly by and you still are so awkwardly perfect. You give me butterflies in my stomach whenever our eyes meet. I love your eyes – your mother must have been extremely pretty if she was a redhead and had beautiful green eyes like yours.

There is a certain sadness clouding your mind lately. All the sparkling smiles have oddly been dimmed. The times that we talk are few and far between, and often you're discussing in hushed whispers with Ron and Hermione. I wish we were closer so you felt safe enough to tell me what's wrong. I hate seeing you so troubled.

I write this all down in my diary.

.

.

I'm sorry. I am so terribly sorry. If I had known that I was the one who was aiding Tom Riddle... I swear I had no idea. Please forgive me, Harry. I never meant to open the Chamber of Secrets.

Thank Godric you have your father's ambition and talent for disobeying the rules. I thank you with all my heart for rescuing me.

You really _are_ Superman.

.

.

The scarlet smoke of the Hogwarts Express billows out into the cloudless blue sky. Sunlight beams upon your face and I surreptitiously observe how the light dances across your irises. It's a beautiful day outside which is fitting since the summer holidays start as soon as we step foot off the train.

Ron ever-so-graciously allowed me to share a train compartment with you and Hermione. Neville was here too, but he lost his toad and now he's on some Dora-the-Explorer search for Trevor.

I only know about that Muggle show from one of our many short and random conversations we had while I was in the Hogwarts infirmary. You would visit me a lot while I recovered from being in the Chamber of Secrets. I think you were my number one visitor – even more so than my mum which I find rather surprising. Not that I am complaining, mind you. I prefer your seemingly senseless rambles of the Muggle world and anything and everything you could think of over Mum's nagging and coddling.

You've been awfully quiet on the train ride. I give up on being stealthy and look blatantly at you. Your eyelids have fluttered shut and your head has lolled slightly to the side. Suddenly the Hogwarts Express makes a sharp curve and your head plops right onto my shoulder, pushing your glasses askew. You don't wake up, though, so I gently take off your glasses and put them the pocket of my black school robes.

Across the compartment, Hermione flashes me a soft knowing smile. I blush furiously and fervently hope that Ron has missed this entire exchange. It's bad enough that my family alerted you of my pathetic school-girl crush on you. Luckily they seemed to have dropped the matter lately. I desperately do not need them start up the teasing again.

You nuzzle closer into my neck and let out a quiet sigh of contentment. That messy black hair of yours is rather tickle-y. I wish I had the nerve to run my fingers through it but that would come across as weird and creepy, especially since you are oblivious to the world right now. A faint clean smell of lemon and sage drifts up from your head, and I realise that I absolutely love the scent of your shampoo.

Trees pass in an unfocused blur as the Hogwarts Express speeds closer and closer to King's Cross Station. I wish time would slow down or something so I could capture this moment for forever. This is the closest you have gotten to me all year, and for once I feel like you completely trust me.

"Ginny," I hear Hermione murmur. "We're almost there."

"Mm," I say back, and you snuggle even closer to me. As much as I try, I cannot seem to hold back the smile that graces my face.

Hermione sighs regretfully and then tells me: "He needs to wake up and change into his Muggle clothes before his aunt and uncle give him a harder time than they usually do."

The mention of your guardians and their attitude towards you puts a damper on my happiness. How could anybody be so rude to such a sweet, kind guy like you?

"Oh, all right," I grumble and gently brush the hair out of your eyes. "Harry," I whisper to you. "Harry, wake up."

You slightly stir and mumble some nonsensical things before flopping back onto me with a firm and resolute: "No."

"C'mon, Harry. We're almost at King's Cross." I nudge you off of me and immediately miss your warmth.

You groan and moan and blink groggily. "Ungh," you grunt.

I laugh at your impressive vocabulary. Hermione giggles as well and mouths to me, "Boys." I shrug and reach into my school robes for your glasses.

"Here," I say. "I was holding onto them for safekeeping while you slept."

"Thanks," you tell me as you put your glasses on. Then you frown and say sheepishly, "Did I lean on you? I'm sorry if I did."

I wave a hand airily. "I didn't mind."

You just nod and then stand up to stretch out your legs. A big yawn ripples throughout the compartment, starting with you and ending with me. I watch as you get your trunk and start rummaging through its contents – presumably for your Muggle clothes.

I wonder if you know how much I am going to miss you this summer. I know I'm going to miss the random talks in the infirmary and your laughter and your twelve-year-old-boy immaturity. I'm going to miss the way you say my name and that lovely shampoo scent of yours. I'm going to miss watching you play Quidditch and the steady ease and confidence you exude on a broom. Maybe one day you could come over to The Burrow and play in one of the infamous Weasley Quidditch tournaments with my brothers and me.

I'm going to miss you.

You grab your things and then sit back down. Then you start talking animatedly with Ron and Hermione. I listen with rapt attention to your conversation and hang on to every word you say. You make an effort to include me from time-to-time but I get the feeling that you three want to talk alone. I politely excuse myself, give you an understanding smile, and then exit the compartment in search of Neville or some Gryffindors in my year.

All too soon, the Hogwarts Express is pulling into King's Cross station. I make my way back to the train compartment you, Ron, and Hermione were occupying, but I find it empty with only my trunk left on the luggage rack. Regret courses through my body when I realise that you left before I could say goodbye.

I step off the train, trunk in hand. Easily, I spot my family. After all, we're the only gingers that are grouped together and extremely loud in the station. I head over and receive the expected hug-and-squeeze from Mum. Over her shoulder, I spy your all-too-familiar shock of tousled hair. You're heading over to two stand-offish people who are looking at you as if you were Dobby's sock. Then, Fred and George distract me as they re-enact one of their pranks for Dad's amusement.

Once the twins finish regaling Dad with their tale, I chance one last look at you before you leave the platform with two stiff, uncomfortable adults who look absolutely nothing like you. Suddenly a trolley stacked full of luggage crosses in front of my line of sight. By the time it moves past, you are gone. I sigh in disappointment, already counting the days until September 1 so I can see your face again.

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**Author's Note: I find it incredibly adorable that Ginny views Harry as Superman. (:  
**

**Review, story favourite, and story alert if you want to be a superhero.**


	2. Second Year

**Author's Note: It has been awhile since I've read _Prisoner of Azkaban _(I know, shame on me) so any minor details that do not match up to the book are entirely my fault. Something I can tell you straight off the bat: I have no idea if Harry is called the Chosen One in PoA. And in the last chapter, I know Ginny should have had no idea about Dobby and his sock. Feel free to alert me to any mistakes in your review; just remember, I am a person and I have feelings. Don't be an asshole and I won't be a bitch.  
**

** www. youtube. com (slash) watch?v=y57sYHIDP_Y  
Remove all spaces and insert a / instead of (slash). This is a link to a YouTube video by Jon Cozart. It's Harry Potter in 99 Seconds and I am completely addicted to it. His vocals and the arrangement are amazing, and he went to my friends' high school.**

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_**Second Year**_

The Great Hall is lit up like Ron's face on Christmas Day. I sit down at the Gryffindor table, eagerly anticipating the welcoming feast. Don't judge me; I'm a Weasley and my stomach is actually a baby dragon in disguise. At least Mum taught me to chew with my mouth closed and talk with it empty – a lesson that Ron still hasn't seemed to learn yet.

In file the First Years. Did I look that young and nervous to you last year? Wide eyes and pale faces turn towards Professor McGonagall in a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. The Sorting Hat is placed on their trembling heads, and soon a small flood of new Gryffindors join our table.

You're on my left and being so sweet to all of them. You greet them with a big smile and answer any questions they have. When Fred and George try to have a laugh at the First Years' expense, you shake your head patronisingly and do a spot-on impression of Percy, the newly named Head Boy, to alleviate the tension. The First Years have no idea who my pompous elder brother is, but they like that you stood up for them. And you're _Harry Potter_ so you already have their utmost respect. However, you are officially my favourite person in the entire world when Chessa Knight, one of the new First Year's, tries to sit between us and you firmly but politely refuse to create a space for her.

I already knew you were perfect, Superman. But this valiant act to keep me next to you proves just how perfect you are.

.

.

Lately, you have taken up the couch by the fireplace in the Gryffindor Common Room as _your_ space. Typically, territorial claims made by a Third Year would go ignored but like I said, you are _Harry Potter_ and nobody dares to go against the Chosen One.

I find it all a load of hippogriff shit. Sure, you've defeated You-Know-Who more times than anyone thought was possible (and everybody else who has tried is currently six feet under). But you're still Harry. You are my brother's best friend and you still haven't gone through your growth spurts yet and my mum knits you ugly sweaters for Christmas. Your round, wire-framed glasses are so out-of-date, and for your next birthday I'm going to get you nerd glasses like Clark Kent's or hipster glasses because who doesn't want to be a hipster?

Just kidding. I'm not a fashion whore like the Patil twins and I could care less about trends – especially eyewear trends. And hipsters are _so_ mainstream.

Anyways, I think I have gotten off on a tangent. Whatever. All this thinking about you has made me crave your company. I go down from the Girls' Dormitories and somehow know that you'll be sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace doing your homework as per usual.

You look up and watch me as I come down the stairs. "Hey, Gin."

"Hi," I say back shyly. "Erm, mind if I join you?"

"Of course not." You scooch over and pat the empty cushion beside you as an invitation to join you. I sit down and you smile over at me. "How are you?"

I say: "Just fine. You?"

You let out a gusty sigh that sounds much too burdening for a boy of only thirteen years. "Alright, I guess. This whole Sirius Black thing is making everybody on edge for my safety."

I nudge your shoulder in reassurance. "They'll find him one of these days."

Green eyes flicker with the light of the fire in the hearth. "Is that...a good thing?" you ask hesitantly.

"It's a Sirius matter," I say solemnly and with the pretentious attitude of the Minister of Magic.

Rolling your eyes at me, you snort: "Did the twins teach you the art of sarcasm and to mock the Minister?"

Unapologetically I shrug. "When you live with an ass-kisser like Percy, it's kind of inevitable."

"Oh, Ginny," you laugh and I laugh along with you although I don't quite know why we are laughing. I didn't say anything funny, did I?

No one else comes through the portrait hole tonight, and we remain undisturbed as we ramble on about nothing and everything. It's almost just like how things were last year when you would come visit me in the Hogwarts infirmary after the whole Chamber of Secrets ordeal.

.

.

The Great Hall is horribly beautiful with its ghastly skeletal decorations (I have yet to decide whether they are real or not) and the ever-present Hogwarts ghosts zooming all over the place as they prepare themselves for their favourite holiday of the year. Candles create dancing shadows along the stone walls, and pumpkins with their faces twisted into grotesque smiles line the floor and magically float in the air.

I, for one, have never really liked Halloween. Or even April Fool's Day, for the matter. Over a decade of living with jokesters like Fred and George have made me dread any day that celebrates any sort of pranking.

But you are all smiles today as you chatter happily during breakfast. I smile back and bask in your sunny disposition. Then Professor McGonagall makes the announcement about the upcoming Hogsmeade trip and your face falls just a bit. I look to Hermione for explanation and she subtly shakes her head.

Before I know it, you are standing up with this awful look on your face. I want to make the storm clouds in your eyes disappear but you're scowling so hard that I fear the Dementors will soon come flying in to feed off your despair.

"I'll see you guys later," you growl and then you're angrily taking the stairs back up towards Gryffindor Tower.

"Bye, Superman," I say but you don't hear me. Neither do Ron and Hermione because they are already lined up at the door in eager anticipation for their first Hogsmeade trip.

I wonder if their hearts hurt for you as much as mine does.

.

.

I find you staring into the fire that lights the hearth in the Gryffindor Common Room. There's a blank sort of emptiness lighting your eyes.

"Harry?" I ask hesitantly.

You shake your head tiredly. "Not now, Ginny."

I bet if I were Hermione or Ron you wouldn't tell them 'not now'. Why do you treat me differently from them? I pay more attention to you than my oblivious brother does. And Hermione doesn't love you the way that I do. Is that it? Do you not notice me the way I want you to notice me because I always forget to tell you I love you, that I'll love you forever? Then again, I doubt you want to hear that. Hermione told me that boys have an emotional range of a teaspoon. I think she was hinting at you and Ron.

"You should smile more often," is all I say before I leave the Common Room. You do not say anything in response. You probably did not even hear me.

.

.

The Quidditch stands are pretty full. It's Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff since Malfoy's run-in with Buckbeack the hippogriff has made Slytherin cancel their position in today's match. I am standing in a sea of scarlet-and-gold but I have never felt this alone before. Ron and Hermione are with the other Third Year's and I haven't really bothered to make a lot of friends in my year. You're warming up on the Quidditch pitch, and Merlin, I wish I was down there too. I cannot wait until the year I get to try out for the Quidditch team. I'll be the best Chaser this school has ever seen.

The air is cold and everybody's faces are pinked more in excitement than from the frigid weather. Some people, mainly the Hufflepuffs, are nervous because of the school's close proximity to the Dementors, but everyone waves away their concern. After all, Hogwarts is the safest place you could be in the magical world. And surely the Dementors will not attack with all of us under Dumbledore's protection.

Rain starts to fall, slowly in its typical drizzly way, but soon it's pouring buckets. The spectators huddle closer in a futile attempt to stay dry. I can only imagine how horrible the weather conditions feel out on the pitch.

I watch you, Superman, fly away on your Nimbus Two-Thousand. You've got a busy day today. I know Oliver Wood is pushing for Gryffindor to finally win the Quidditch Cup. Your eyes are squinted in determination as you prepare to go save the world – well, more like Gryffindor House pride.

Everybody is so caught up in the game that we fail to notice how the rain has blurred you out of our sight until suddenly you are falling into the clutches of the Dementors. Thankfully Dumbledore saves you by performing some complicated spell which emanates a bright, white light.

I observe the rest of the match with dull eyes. Your broomstick flies into the Whomping Willow without you on it. Hufflepuff wins the match.

There is only one thought echoing in my mind the whole game: I hope you are alright.

.

.

Something's up. You have only been out of the Infirmary for a couple weeks at most, but the mischievous gleam in your eyes is already back. Ron let slip something about a map but I don't understand what the big deal is.

Hermione's been quite frazzled lately. I think I'll go talk to her. She seems to be over-extending herself. I wonder how she manages to make time for all of her classes and everything.

Just know that if you ever need someone to talk to or you want to ramble and rant, I'll be around.

.

.

I watch you fly away on your new Firebolt. You don't notice me standing in the Quidditch stands. You are too caught up on trying to catch the affections of that Ravenclaw Seeker girl. Cho Chang is her name. Come back to me, Harry, I'll be with you one day. I have a feeling she won't – she looks like the superficial type to only like you because of your name. I'll be waiting right here on the ground when you come back down. She will be off flirting with that Cedric Diggory guy, completely ignorant of how hung up on her you are.

Oh, Merlin, is this what jealousy feels like? I don't like it one bit.

Never mind, Harry. If all you want is a girl to mindlessly flip her hair about, she can have you. I did not know your kryptonite is a pretty girl with air for brains.

.

.

Sirius Black is your godfather? Wow, didn't expect that coming. And my talk with Hermione about having a healthier workload must have worked since she is dropping Muggle Studies to have a normal class schedule again. Ron's off yapping about the Quidditch World Cup to you. Something about Dad getting tickets. Whatever. I know I won't be invited.

Hermione is giving me funny looks. I think she knows my attitude towards you is changing. I'm starting to grow out of my silly little school-girl crush. You'll still always be Superman to me, but I finally realised that I'm not your Lois Lane.

The train ride home is different from last year. I think it's different in a good way. You and Ron are completely unaware of the changes I am going through. I trust Hermione not to breathe a word of it to you two. I think it is necessary for you guys to wake up one day and realise that I won't always be that little girl who wants to tag along and hang on to every word you say.

During Third Year I think I might branch out a little bit and find some people in my own year to hang out with. Don't worry; I will still talk to all three of you. I just need to start learning to be my own self, that's all. I can't live my whole life in others' shadows.

The Hogwarts Express pulls into King's Cross. You leave the train compartment in a cloud of laughter as you nudge Hermione's and Ron's shoulders. I'm left totally forgotten and without a goodbye – same as last year.

Maybe I'll see you when you stop by The Burrow for the Quidditch World Cup. But judging from your actions towards me lately, I probably will not.


	3. Third Year

_**Third Year**_

Since when did you get so tall? It's like over the summer someone permanently affixed stilts to your legs or something. I have to tilt my head so far back to even try to see into your eyes. Dark, shaggy hair grazes your eyebrows in a hairstyle that sort-of echoes your godfather's. I never would have imagined your hair to have a slight curl to it, but that is exactly what it is doing at the base of your neck. You look pretty good for someone who has haphazardously left what promised to be a well-played Quidditch World Cup but then turned into mayhem as a wizarding riot took place and the Dark Mark floated about. Your eyes are as green as always but they're hauntingly beautiful today, and ghosts of questions asked but not yet answered linger in your troubled irises.

Mum is smothering everybody who was at the match. She's a blubbering mess, crying about her nagging last words to the twins and whatnot. You look pretty uncomfortable, and once she has stopped her tears, you reassure her with a gentle peck on the cheek and say to everybody that you're headed to Ron's room. My brother and Hermione follow dutifully. When you pass me, you say, "Hi, Ginny" in a hollow, quiet voice and that's it.

Two simple, impersonal words are all you have to say to me. You could have _died_ from what Mum has to say about the whole situation, but no, you just want to tell me hello.

Godric, I hate how I obviously care more about you than you seem to care about me.

.

.

Dumbledore announces something called a Triwizard Tournament during the Start-of-Term feast. It's to be held at Hogwarts this year, and two other magical schools that I have never heard of are to be participating and living on-campus with us. One is called Durmstrang; the other, Beauxbatons.

No wizard or witch under seventeen years is allowed to participate. Already, Fred and George are whispering excitedly under their breath as they plot a way to bypass the age limit rule. I see you eavesdropping in on their conversation and the interested gleam in your eye. My stomach flip-flops anxiously as I study you contemplating whether you should attempt to enter your name into the competition despite the fact that you are under-age.

Harry James Potter, if you dare take one step near that Goblet of Fire, I swear to Merlin that I will go all Molly Weasley on you and the aftermath will not be pretty at all.

.

.

Silence. Complete and utter silence. Everybody eyes the Goblet of Fire in nervous anticipation as we all wait to hear the nominees of this year's Triwizard Tournament:

Viktor Krum, the Seeker from Durmstrang. Fleur Delacour, some popularity queen at Beauxbatons. Cedric Diggory, a Hufflepuff from Hogwarts who is rumoured to have vampire heritage and the ability to sparkle in the sunlight.

The fourth wizard in the Triwizard Tournament is you.

.

.

This is completely ridiculous. You're already _Harry Potter_; surely you do not need nor want the repute of being some hot commodity that broke the rules to enter the Tournament. Seriously, Gryffindor is taking this entirely out of context. Throwing a party celebrating your nomination last week was a bit too much, don't you think?

I know Hermione agrees with me. It is all she and I have discussed and complained about since you were chosen. And Ron is not very pleased, either. Sure, you've got your little posse of the simpering airheads like Lavender Brown and the Patil twins, and Fred and George are impressed by your little stunt as well as Dean, Seamus, and Neville. But Hermione is thoroughly disgusted with your reckless decision to enter yourself into the competition, and Ron has a green jealousy streak that leprechauns would envy. And you don't speak to me much anymore, so you really cannot come over to me to vent or anything.

It is quite obvious that you are hurting to talk to somebody. I know this because lately you've been seeking me out. It's nice to know I'm a last resort to you these days. Really boosts my self-esteem, Mr Potter.

You catch my eye right now over dinner and open your mouth as if you're about to say something. But then you see that I am surrounded by people who could really care less about your sudden increase in popularity. Green eyes darken in uncertainty, and although you sit down at the same table as me, it is as if you are worlds away.

Hermione leans over and whispers in my ear: "Should I fix this rift between Ron and Harry?"

I push my peas, fish, and chips around on my plate. I am rather surprised and pleased the Hogwarts house elves cooked such a stereotypical British meal for tonight's dinner. Fish and chips are my comfort food, and right now I could use all the comfort available. "Maybe," I say indecisively. "Why don't you let them work it out for now? See how they fare in a day or two." I chance a look over at you and see your dejected, lonely face even though you are surrounded by a sea of admirers.

"Alright," Hermione agrees slowly. "But I feel like such an awful friend for letting the tension between them grow."

Guilt and empathy and regret all colour my voice when I respond: "At some point Harry has to learn and figure out who exactly he wants in his life." It sounds horrible for me to say such a terrible thing, and that is how I rationalise to myself why you stopped talking to me as much as you used to.

.

.

I bump into you in the corridor on my way to Potions. I am already late by Snape's book and am in a shitty mood because of Ron who is acting like a sodding bastard all because of you.

"Sorry—" you begin to say but I am in no mood for pansy-ass remarks that you do not mean.

"Watch it!" I snarl even though our little run-in is entirely my fault.

Immediately you are on the defensive. "No, _you_ watch it," is your clever response. A scowl creeps its way onto your face and your eyebrows bunch together in confusion as to why you are angry at me. But you are irritated nonetheless and I can see your male ego start to make its presence be known.

"Oh, so _now_ you want to talk to me!" I snipe loudly. Our little interaction is quickly gaining nosey on-lookers and a small crowd is gathering around us.

"What's that supposed to mean?" you fire back.

"Puh-lease," I say with a roll of my eyes. "Like you don't know." Godric, why do you have to be so complicated and dense?

"No, Ginny," you tell me. "I really _don't_ know." And then you do something completely irrational and get all up in my personal space.

Um, excuse me? Instinctively, I push you away and draw my wand with it pointed straight at you. Slowly, you take a step back and eye me warily as if I am an unpredictable hippogriff who could attack at any moment. Which is completely true in all honesty, but you don't need to know that.

Green eyes lock onto mine but they are obscured behind a glass frame that reflects an image I expect to see and not the true portrayal. Somebody who I do not recognise starts to speak with your voice. "Ginny," the stranger says slowly and reaches out a hesitant arm towards me. I flinch away and keep my wand trained on you—the stranger—whoever you are. "Ginny, what's gotten into you?"

It's like a jolt of pure electricity to my mind. Suddenly I am reminded of my surroundings and the many little gossips that cannot wait to run back to their Houses with a story full of lies about my tense run-in with you. I recoil back and hastily stow my wand, not wanting to give them anymore ammunition or incentive to lie their little hearts out. "Never mind. You've made it clear that I am nothing to you, Harry. If we were actually _friends,_ you would have asked that question a long time ago. I see that I was wrong about you all along." I hoist my bag up on one shoulder and make to dash towards Snape's cold dungeons.

"Bye, Harry."

.

.

I am a horrible liar. Mum always tells me this. She says my ears turn brick red and that my nose twitches. Then she smacks me upside the head with her sweeping broom and tells me to never lie to her face again. I think I get broom-smacked at least two times a month whenever I am home for the holidays. She might have to think up a new method to make me stop lying but I doubt it will work. I'm a true Weasley through-and-through; once a trouble-maker, always a troublemaker. She can thank Fred and George for that little motto.

But I digress. I don't think I have ever lied to you before. That must be the reason why you didn't know to look for those specific telltale signs when I was ranting to you in the corridor earlier. I am pretty sure the tips of my ears were bright red and my nose was twitching like crazy when I formally broke off our friendship today.

.

.

I thought I knew what love was. I see it all the time in my parents' relationship in the way Dad always kisses Mum on the cheek when he comes home from work and the way Mum constantly worries about him whenever something is going wrong at the Ministry. I hear about it all the time from Dumbledore whenever he makes his little hippie speeches about how love is the answer to defeating You-Know-Who. I feel it in my heart whenever I think about my family and how I would rather die than let any of them get hurt, physically or emotionally. I dreamt about it when I was younger, little fairytales of magic and first kisses and a happily ever after. I imagined a tall, dashing Prince Charming who I hoped someday would take me away and save the day.

But then I met you.

And then I learned that love is not perfect and happy. Love is awful and painful and crying into a pillow at night. Love is being ignored and awkward and whispered conversations in a hospital bed. Love is trying to catch your eye in the school corridors and laughing at your jokes even though they are dreadful. Love is hating how you are so reckless and your need to play hero all the time. Love is wanting to tell you all this but standing back in the shadows as I watch you stumble over yourself trying to talk to Cho Chang.

.

.

"Ginny, will you go to Yule Ball with me?"

I pause for a moment and then accept with small grin. He's not who I want to take me, but Neville is sweet and something in his deep brown eyes has me saying he's not all bad like his reputation. I can't hear one single word the gossipers in Gryffindor say when I respond affably, "Sure, I'd love to."

Neville smiles back, understanding that we are going as friends. He then resumes practising his waltzing in the Gryffindor Common Room. He is actually quite good at ballroom dancing.

I watch my date for a while and think about you, the person who I wish had asked me. Suddenly Hermione joins me on your sofa in the Common Room by the fireplace. She lets out a little squeal of excitement and tells me how Viktor Krum asked her to the Yule Ball. Her smile dims a little when she reflects on how disappointed she is that Ron hasn't asked her yet and now it is too late. I console her and am appropriately squeal-y and giggle-y with her. I have an idea of how disheartened she is because it is the exact same way I feel about you. Hermione comforts me back. Together, we are happy, free, confused, and lonely at the same time. It's a little miserable and magical in the best way.

I just really wish you were the one who asked me to the Yule Ball, though.

.

.

"Hey, Gin, you got a moment?"

Did I hear you right? You actually want to talk to me after all these months of silence between us? "Er, yeah." I tuck an unruly strand of ginger hair behind my ear and say, "What's up?"

We're standing at the entrance of the Great Hall. You managed to catch me before I left to go to the Library for some Transfiguration homework which can surely wait since you are undoubtedly more important than a McGonagall essay. However, you don't answer my question promptly since your eyes are trained on Cho Chang's retreating back - more specifically, her ass - as she leaves the Great Hall for Ravenclaw Tower.

Immediately I grow annoyed and my heart breaks seeing you still mooning after her. "Never mind," I say as I turn to rummage around in my bookbag. "I've got to get started on some Transfig homework—"

"_Ginny_," you plead and direct my attention back to your face. "Please." And then you run a hand through your hair and say no more.

Hermione has mentioned that you were stressed with all of your schoolwork and the Tournament and figuring out the mystery of what Snape is up to, and I feel kind of guilty for adding on friendship problems to your hectic life but Harry, if you want us to stay friends you're going to have to keep up with your side of the relationship.

"Please what?" I snap.

You wince and scuff the ground with your trainers. "I miss you," you say softly. "I miss being friends."

My heart breaks even more with that admission because I never wanted to be 'just friends' with you. But I dismiss the pain and make myself feel slightly victorious that you have finally come to realise that you need me in your life.

"Yeah, well, you win some and you lose some," I say shortly.

"I never wanted to lose you."

I shrug. "Tough luck." And then I start walking away.

"Ginny, can you cut out the sarcasm and just _talk_ to me?"

I hesitate. A second passes. And then another. No one has been that blunt with me lately. It's kind of refreshing, although rude.

"I've already said everything I needed to say to you," I toss over my shoulder.

"Doubt it," you reply honestly.

"Whatever. It doesn't matter anymore, does it?" I resume my way up the staircase.

"Of course it matters," you tell me. "Your thoughts have always mattered to me."

I want to believe you, I truly do, but as sincere as you seem, I don't really think you are. It's more like you are terrified that everything that once came easily to you - the fame, friends, magic, me fancying you - well, now that it's all steadily slipping out of your hands, you don't know what to do. Your eyes are wide and frantic as you try to preserve things and change them back to the way they were. But life isn't easy, Harry. This past year, I've grown up loads and realised that you cannot always get everything you want in life. And you can try as hard as you can, but some things you have to work for and cannot expect to just land in your lap.

That's not to say I _want_ to walk out of your life. Merlin, no. But I hate being in the friend-zone with you because _I want so much more_. So, as much as it pains me to do so, I take a deep breath and continue climbing the stairs.

"Ginny?" you question uncertainly.

My name sounds so perfect coming from your mouth. The temptation to stop and just run back into your waiting arms is overwhelming, but I force myself to walk away.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I really have to go." I reach the top of the steps, square my shoulders, and then turn the corner. The entire time, I do not chance a look back at you.

.

.

"Harry misses you, Gin," Ron tells me at dinner. I was surprised when he sat down next to me instead of over by you, but I understand my brother's choice of sitting by me now that I know he's trying to patch up our friendship.

I knit my eyebrows together and bite my lip, unsure of I am going to regret my next couple of words. "Yeah, well, I miss him too."

"So then make up with him or whatever," Ron says in a _duh _voice before shovelling in a tremendous amount of food into the gaping chasm he calls a mouth.

"It's not that simple," I reason, but I know my dense brother will not understand. Hermione is always reiterating the fact that Ron has the emotional range of a teaspoon to me.

Ron shrugs. "Yeah, it really is, Ginny."

I huff. Of course he thinks so now that everything is good and right between their little bromance again. I cast a wistful look down at the bench where you and Hermione are sitting. Hermione is lecturing about the rights of House Elves, and I can practically see her words float in through one of your ears and out of the other. A hint of a smile alights upon my face once I catch sight of your bored expression and glazed eyes. The scene is so typical of you two, but for some reason, I cannot make myself get up out of my seat so I can go over to talk to you and rescue you from Hermione's little tirade.

.

.

"Harry misses you, Gin," Hermione tells me on our way to the Library. She's here to help me with my Charms homework, but it seems that she is also trying to play peacemaker between you and me.

I huff. "Yeah, I know. Ron already told me that."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Aren't you going to do anything about it?"

I drop my bookbag forcefully down on one of the study tables which earns me a glare from Madam Pince. I mouth something that looks like an apology and then go to browse the bookshelves for a dusty old book about the history of the Summoning Charm. Hermione appropriately interprets my deliberate silence as a 'no'.

But if Hermione Granger is anything, she sure is damn persistent. "Ginny, come on. You're being irrational." She has been trailing me as I've been perusing the bookshelves, but now she leans in closer and drops her voice to a whisper. "Look. I know Harry is more than a friend to you. And after a while he'll realise that you are so much better than Cho. And I know I told you to that you should consider other guys romantically until Harry pulls his head out of his ass, but when I said that I didn't mean you two should stop being friends. If anything, you two should be closer friends so he'll come to his senses and notice that you are not his 'sister' but a girl he can be romantically involved with."

"Hermione," I say. "You're wasting your breath. If he wanted to be my friend so badly, he would've done something to keep our friendship intact instead of pushing me away all the time."

Hermione's eyes brighten with understanding. "Is that it? All you want is for Harry to make the first move?"

"What? No!" I shake my head vehemently. "I never said that. Hermione, please stop interfering. I know you mean well, but you and Ron are not helping at all. Just...stop."

"If that's what you want," Hermione says uncertainly. "But you know Harry. You have to spell these sorts of things out to him. He's not very perceptive about social cues."

.

.

"Here, let me help you with that." All of the sudden the tall stack of books that I am carrying out of the Library have been removed out of my hands and I can see again.

"Oh, thank you!" I gush appreciatively. A smile of gratitude lights upon my face. That is, until I see who is helping me.

Dark messy hair and trademark glasses. Check. Lightningbolt-shaped scar on forehead. Check. Hero complex. Check. Hi, Superman.

"You know, I am perfectly capable of carrying books myself," I say rather coldly and make to snatch all the books about the history of the Summoning Charm. Who knew that there is so much dull information about one single Charm?

"I know," you tell me simply but keep a firm hold on the books. "Where to? Gryffindor Common Room?"

"Yes," I say grudgingly and scowl as I follow you back to Gryffindor Tower. A suspicious thought suddenly enters my mind as I reply the conversation I had with Hermione in the Library. "Wait a minute. Did Hermione set you up to this?"

Your back is to me so I can't see your face, but I hear the hurt in your voice that you try to mask with a careful neutrality. "Nobody put me up to this. I was just on my way to the Kitchens when I saw you."

I bite my lip after I say: "The Kitchens are in the opposite direction, Harry."

Silence greets my words. Alright-y then.

You stop outside of the Fat Lady's portrait. The tall stack of books do not come up past your chin, so you look at me and start a conversation.

"I miss you, Ginny."

I sigh. Not this again. "I know, Harry," I say in a tired voice. "Ron and Hermione have kept me informed about that particular sentiment."

"I mean it, you know."

"I know."

It's quiet again. I am looking anywhere but at your face. There is this really awkward tension between us and I am not sure if I like it.

Finally, you break the silence. "Could you, perhaps, tell me what I did wrong? I want to fix this...I hate not being friends with you, Ginny."

I sigh. "You can't fix it, Harry."

"Why not?"

"Because...because-" _Because you love Cho Chang and not me._

"Because why?"

"Because you can't!" Godric, that sounds so juvenile. I turn to the Fat Lady's portrait and whisper the password to her before I flee into the Gryffindor Common Room.

"Ginny?" you call out as you follow me inside. "Ginny, I just want to understand."

I collapse onto your couch in front of the fireplace and cover my face with my hands. There is a dull _thunk_ on the wooden floorboards as my mountain of library books hit the ground, and then the over-plush crimson-and-gold sofa cushions sink down as you sit beside me. Hesitantly, a pair of arms encircles me and brings me close to you in a much-needed hug. We hug a tad bit longer than 'friends' should - but wait, I forgot that we _aren't_ friends. I refuse to let the tears fall because there is no way in Merlin's name that I'll ever let you see me look weak but my vision has gone rather blurry.

After a few more moments, you let me go and settle back onto your side of the sofa but there is a trace of reluctance in your actions. I try not to read too much into your body signals but for a brief moment I let myself fantasize about what it would be like if just maybe you cared about me as much as I care about you.

"Ginny," you say in a soft voice. There's another emotion hidden in the sound of my name coming from your lips, but for the life of me I cannot decipher your feelings from the single word you spoke.

I whisper back: "I miss you." I half-hope you do not hear me.

"I'm right here," you respond. You make to move closer to me but then think better of it.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I might as well stop creating so much drama and tell you exactly what I think and how I feel. Gathering all the Gryffindor courage I have, I say: "But you haven't always been 'here', Harry. It seems like you are continuously off to compete in the Tournament or flirt with Cho Chang-" You open your mouth indignantly at that last comment, but I give you an infamous Molly Weasley glare and immediately you shut your mouth. "-or you're focused on Quidditch and classwork and writing essays for professors or fighting He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or, well, anything but spending time with the people who actually care about you!"

"What do you think I am doing right now?" you protest weakly but you fall silent once more as I direct another Molly Weasley glare at your remark.

"That's all fine and dandy, Harry, and I'm not saying I do not appreciate your uninvited company right now but Merlin, would it kill you to make an effort to take a breather from all this _Harry Potter_ fame crap and relax or something with your true friends and not those simpering bimbos who just want to be associated with you?"

You frown. "Are you insulting me or asking me a question?"

"Bloody hell, Harry!" I explode, my eyes popping open so I can glower at you. "Godric, can you _please_ forget about your bloody pride for two seconds! It's not all about your ego or whatnot!"

The frown deepens into a scowl. "Look, do you think I _asked_ for all this? Dear Merlin, Ginny, _Voldemort _chose me! I could give a rat's ass about the fame or whatever the hell you want to call it! You out of all people should know I prefer to be out of the spotlight, or did it escape your mind when I was dodging the press all of Second Year to be in the Infirmary with you? And I didn't enter myself into the Tournament. I didn't sign myself up for all these Tasks. So for Godric's sake, Ginny, don't be blaming all of this on me!"

"Fine!" I shoot back. "It's not all your fault, I will admit that. But the least you could do is own up to some of it and then try to change it!"

"Change what?" you ask, playing dumb but the challenging look in your eyes lets me know that you have a crystal clear idea of what I want you to change.

I gnash my teeth together and stare angrily into the blazing flames in the fireplace. I hate you, I hate your attitude towards me, I hate how you've come to depend on me and think that I'll be here for you no matter what (which is true but you are not supposed to _exploit _the fact), and I especially hate how you let your ego and the attention you get from the people who don't really care about you overshadow the trust and friendship of your friends who had your back before your fame blew up into epic proportions. All of _that_ is what I want you to change, you stubborn little git.

I let a few tense moments pass before I say in a low, neutral voice, "Do you even want to be friends, Harry?"

You turn towards me incredulously. "Of course I want that! If you hadn't noticed, I am _trying_ to become friends with you again!"

"Well, your attempt is bloody horrible," I tell you bluntly.

You cringe and accept my insult with good humour. Then you look at me, your eyes open and inviting behind your glasses. "I'm sorry," you finally apologise.

The sceptical bitch inside of me makes me say, "For?"

"For not being a better friend towards you. For letting the fame and attention go to my head. For being a cocky little shit. For not keeping up with our midnight talks. For not making you one of my top priorities."

"I don't want to be a 'priority'," I inform you. "I want to be Ginny."

A small smile blossoms on your face. "Alright, Gin."

You already know this, but I'll say it out loud anyways. "You're forgiven, Harry."

The smile flourishes under my acceptance of your apology. You scoot over on the sofa cushions so we are closer. Then you lean in with a conspiratorial glint in your eye and whisper, "So do you think Dumbledore has a thing for Professor McGonagall?"

.

We have been talking for hours now, but to me it feels like mere minutes. I am so glad that we've rekindled our friendship. I hadn't realised just how much I really missed you. The fire in the hearth is still blazing strongly, and my pile of Charms books have remained forgotten on the floor.

"Hey, I've got to run and start preparing for the Third Task. Wanna go down to the Quidditch pitch later and just fly?" you suggest.

"Yeah, sure," I agree, liking the idea of flying just because with you.

Then you leave because you've got places to be without me. I'm okay with that now that we are friends and talking to each other again. As I watch you leave the portrait hole, though, a small thought flickers in my mind. I always forget to tell you 'I love you' and that I have loved you from the very first day.

Be safe. I hope you win this whole Triwizard Tournament thing.


	4. Fourth Year

**Author's Note: I do quote some dialogue directly from _Order of the Phoenix _for a scene in this chapter. Obviously I am not JKRowling and mean no disrespect for incorporating her magical words into this little fic.**

* * *

**_Fourth Year_**

Number Twelve Grimmauld Place is so different from The Burrow. Everything about the dark, sombre place reeks of the Black ancestry and their Pureblood ideals. I know that other traditional Purebloods view my family as blood traitors, and Mrs Black and Kreacher ever so kindly do not hesitate to remind my brothers and me of our 'filth'. I feel especially bad for Hermione since the Black family house is pretty much the antithesis of her Muggleborn heritage. Kreacher is particularly nasty to her without good reason. However, Sirius is open and welcoming to the Order of the Phoenix, and to me, his opinion counts more than his dead mum's and the sullen little house elf.

Yesterday night you arrived at Sirius' house. It was quite late and I had already gone to bed, but your advent caused quite a stir within the household. Originally there had been hushed tones and whispers as the Order discussed whatever they needed to discuss but when you showed up the grim voices had turned into words of welcome and joy. Mum had fussed over your appearance, of course, and the twins were showing off with their newly acquired Apparition skills. You thundered up the stairs, quite unaware that _some_ people were trying to sleep, and greeted my brother and Hermione loudly.

Not once did you mention my name.

.

.

"Hey, Gin," you greet me.

"Good morning," I mumble sleepily and rummage around in the cupboards for some cereal and a banana.

You notice my fruitless search and say, "Oh, er, your mum made some pancakes earlier. They're on the table if you want to eat them."

Ever since I became a teen, my mind has been foggy with sleep in the morning. I yawn and turnaround from the cupboards to blink at you stupidly. "Hmm?"

A small smile of amusement is on your face, but you wisely hold your tongue about my not-so-responsive state so early in the morning. "Pancakes. Your mum made them for breakfast. There are plenty left over, and they are sitting on the table." At my inquiring glance around the room, you add: "Everyone already ate. I was just about to clean up when you came downstairs."

"Oh. Hmm. Time?" Yes, my vocabulary is limited to monosyllabic words if I have been awake for less than an hour.

"Quarter 'til eleven."

I stare at you, flabbergasted. "Dear Godric, it's early."

You chuckle. "Considering that you were asleep at eight last night, I would have thought you to be a morning bird."

Oh, so you _were_ wondering about me when you arrived yesterday. Interesting. "Mm, well, you thought wrong," is my response. I grab a plate from the counter and sit down across from you. There are heaps and heaps of fluffy pancakes stacked in the centre of the table. I have no idea which one to pick.

"Blueberry is on the right, chocolate chip on the far right, banana nut on the left, cinnamon pumpkin on the far left, and plain in the middle," you tell me helpfully.

"Your left or mine?" I ask dumbly as if I do not have eyes to see the tell-tale blueberries or orange-y tinge of the pumpkin.

"My left," you respond easily, still smiling amusedly at me but not calling attention to my brainless question.

Apparently my question was entirely useless anyways since I reach for the plain pancakes in the middle. I take two and lightly drench them in maple syrup. You study me unobtrusively and take a swig of your chocolate milk. Immediately I am transported back to a time when I was eleven and you were enjoying your quiet breakfast of chocolate chip pancakes and chocolate milk in the Great Hall.

"Let me guess: you had chocolate chip this morning," I say into the silence as I come back out of the little flashback.

You raise an eyebrow in mock elusiveness. "What makes you think that?"

I stand up and reach across the table to dab at a chocolate smear on the corner of your mouth with my napkin. Your eyes watch me with an intense carefulness. All of the sudden there is this odd sort of tenseness in the room. Our faces are so close to each other that I can feel your breath every time you exhale. It's warm, soft, and I can smell traces of chocolate. Your breath clouds my mind and my mind goes blank until the only thing on my mind is you. My eyes flutter shut and out of the blue I am wondering what it would be like if I closed the distance between us and kissed your lips. Taken back by this bold thought, I retreat to my side of the table and attempt to alleviate all the tension with a blunt, joking remark.

"Oh, the fact that it looks like someone shit all over your face did absolutely nothing to make me think that you ate chocolate chip pancakes," I say with my typical crassness that I picked up from my older brothers.

You laugh, and all the weird heaviness in the air disappears. "Silly me. I thought it you knew because of my well-known obsession with anything chocolate."

"Hmm," I say, playing along. "No, that must've slipped my mind."

When I look back into your smiling eyes, however, an underlying curious darkness in them has me thinking that you were wondering what it would be like to kiss, too.

.

.

You smile and you laugh and you act like the Harry I knew before the Triwizard Tournament, but sometimes you get this melancholy feeling about you and the whole room dims with your depressing, quiet outlook. I watch you fly away into the negative recesses of your mind, and it hurts me so much that you refuse to talk about whatever is bothering you.

Right now you are standing by the floor-to-ceiling window in the study, looking out at the city. You look so broken. What happened during the Triwizard Tournament? I know You-Know-Who was there and he killed Cedric Diggory, but what _really_ happened, Harry? What did he do to you to make you shatter to pieces? What did he do to make your eyes haunted with things no fifteen-year-old should ever be burdened with?

What did he do to you?

.

.

You've got a busy day today. You and Dad leave early this morning for the Ministry where your Hearing is going to take place. Maybe you'll see Percy – although, I am sorry if you do. Nobody wants to be around that pompous git more than they absolutely have to, save Mum, of course.

Hermione's confident that the Ministry will grant you pardon for your use of under-aged magic. I wish I could share her faith, but these days the Ministry has been so corrupt that I honestly do not know or trust the way they operate anymore.

.

.

Apparently the devil wears Prada. And it's the worst shade of _pink _imaginable. Not to mention all the fluffy cats and the horrible high-pitched voice that sounds like nails on a chalkboard calling me out in class when I obviously do not know the answer.

I hate Dolores Jane Umbridge. I hate the Ministry for sending her to Hogwarts. I hate her for wanting to convict you of under-aged magic when you were obviously trying to protect yourself and your pig of a cousin from a Dementor attack. Dear _Merlin_, I bloody hate that witch.

And the nerve of her to interrupt Dumbledore during his traditional welcome speech at the Start-Of-Term Feast! I swear, if I have to hear one more ridiculous _ahem_ from her, I will bat-bogey hex her into oblivion.

Godric, when does she leave already?

.

.

Gryffindor Tower is a nightmare. It was all fine and dandy until you showed up. People were all crowded about saying hi to friends they hadn't seen in awhile, and the new slightly petrified First Years were trying to stay out of everybody's way.

And then my brother, Hermione, and you stepped through the portrait hole.

Immediately it became silent. Smiles slowly fell upside down. Michael Corner, a Ravenclaw boy in my Year, stops trying to flirt with me; his mouth curls into a sneer when his eyes alight upon you. It's stupid, really, how Michael thinks he needs to continuously impress me when I already agreed that I would be his girlfriend. I only agreed to it because I _used_ to fancy you, but I gave up on you months ago when I saw that you still hadn't gone out of your Cho-phase.

You look around the Common Room, wondering why it is so silent and why so many eyes are staring you down. I want to help you, to tell you that you are not alone, but Michael's arm is wrapped loosely around my waist and reminds me of my choice to remain your friend and nothing more. I bite back the words I want to say and watch the scene unfurl in front of me.

Seamus Finnegan is the first to speak. He holds up The Daily Prophet as evidence to justify why his mam didn't want him to come back to Hogwarts after all the doubt on Dumbledore's and your word that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back. Nobody believes your ulterior motive is that you want to go save the world from You-Know-Who and his band of Death Eaters. None of them view you as Superman like I still do. They all subconsciously blame you for Cedric Diggory's death even though the proof is there that you are not the one at fault.

You handle the disparaging remarks with dignity and I envy you for your tight control on your temper for once. But then some insolent Gryffindor snidely comments about the "suspicious" circumstances of Cedric's death, and you crack. It takes everything in Ron to physically pull you out of this mess. He nobly stands up for you, but I can tell that nobody really cares about the wholesome words he describes you with. That is, no one but me.

You and my brother disappear up in a seething, furious rush towards the Boys' Dormitories. My eyes follow your progress up the stairs until I can see you no longer.

I hate that I didn't do anything. Even though I'm Michael's girlfriend, I am still your friend which means that I am allowed to stick up for you, right? I want to go up to see you, to talk to you, but Michael gently lures me back into his conversation and you are all but forgotten from my mind.

When I do tuck myself into bed that night, I wish I could have some sort of telepathetic link (that's what Hermione and I call telepathy after an excruciating lesson with Professor Trelawney) so I could let you know that I'll be around if you ever do want to talk.

.

.

You storm into the Common Room after your first detention with Professor Umbridge. "Hey, Ginny," you acknowledge me with a terse nod in my direction. After years of getting mad at you for not addressing my presence, it seems to be that you have finally caught on to greeting me whenever you see me despite whatever mood you are in.

"Hey," I say, glancing up from my Potions essay. You're scowling and in some awful, furious frame of mind. I wish I could help but I know you need your space right now.

"Fucking hate Umbridge," I hear you mutter as you irately stomp up the stairs to the Boys' Dormitory.

"Don't we all," I agree whole-heartedly as I go back to my essay.

Just as fast as you go up the stairs, you come back down the stairs with your Firebolt in hand. Normally you would ask me to accompany you for a quick spin on our brooms since we've started to have our mindless little talks while flying, but not-so-surprisingly you do not invite me on this outing.

"If anybody asks, I'll be out on the Pitch," you say.

"Alright," I reply. We both know nobody will ask since it is currently about two in the morning.

"I'll be out for a while," you tell me as if you think I care. Which I do, but you're not supposed to know that.

"Mhmm."

You open your mouth as if you are going to say something else but then you change your mind and head out of the portrait hole. I glance back at my half-finished essay. My quill is poised over the parchment but it seems to be that my mind has gone blank. All the stress and fury and negative emotions you were exuding are now making me anxious and restless.

"Ah, screw it," I mumble and throw my quill down in defeat. Obviously my essay (which is due tomorrow – I mean, today) will not be getting done. Snape will just have to deal.

Without even realising it, I stand up from your couch in front of the fireplace and head over towards the windows that overlook the Quidditch Pitch. The sky is dark and inky but clear, and the moon is a spotlight on the lake. Its bright beams cast an angelic glow over you, even though you are flying recklessly and pulling stunts that only the devil could survive. I watch you fly away off the Pitch and into the clouds. A sharp feeling of longing pierces through me. _Come back_, I want to say. _I'll be with you someday. I'll come out and fly with you and you can tell me what that witch did to you_. But I know that's not what you want, so I stay right here on the ground, waiting for you when you come back down.

.

.

The Hog's Head is crammed full of people: me, my boyfriend Michael Corner, Neville, Dean, Lavender, the Patil twins, Cho and her bestie named Marietta Edgecombe, Luna, Katie Bell, Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson, the Creevey brothers, Ernie Macmillan, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, Anthony Goldstein, Terry Boot, Zacharias Smith, Fred and George, Lee Jordan, and Aberforth and his goat. We all wait patiently for Ron and Hermione to bring you to the tiny pub.

Once the three of you enter, Hermione wastes no time in explaining to everyone that we are all here to create a training programme that will effectively help us prepare for the real world by practising defensive spells, something that Professor Umbridge vehemently refuses to do during class. You are to be the instructor since, you know, you've had the most experience fighting against the Dark Arts.

We call ourselves Dumbledore's Army.

.

.

Surprisingly, days pass by rather fast under Professor Umbridge's awful reign. Of course, it helps that there are regular D.A. meetings in the Room of Requirement. The fact that these clandestine meetings are forbidden by the High Inquisitor just makes the whole prospect of defying the rules even more alluring. As Hermione ever-so-eloquently said: "It's sort of exciting, isn't it? Breaking the rules."

Soon, you have taught us how to effectively execute the Disarming Charm, the Impediment Jinx, the Reductor Curse, and the Stunning Spell. Everyone is flourishing under your careful tutelage, and these days Neville is basking in praise instead of scorn from our fellow classmates.

Michael is determined to always be my partner when we practise the spells. I don't mind, really, but you seem to, for I have noticed that your jaw clenches whenever you see me and him together. I catch your eye from across the room where you are helping Cho master a relatively easy spell that everybody learned back in First Year. I give you a small smile of encouragement, but your eyes are quickly enraptured by the shininess of her raven-black hair.

She's going to get you two killed in a battle against a Death Eater. I hope you don't expect me to pick up the pieces after it happens.

.

.

The Gryffindor Quidditch team is playing Slytherin tonight in our first match of the season. Ron is the new Keeper, and I pray to Merlin that he doesn't botch anything up. He may be a Prefect this year but he is certainly far from perfect.

In an attempt to stop worrying anxiously about Ron and his obvious nerves, I surreptitiously watch you fly a warm-up lap around the Pitch. It looks like you're flying around the world, what with the sun being swallowed by the greedy darkness of night. It almost feels like we're standing on the edge of Earth, waiting to tumble into the seemingly nothingness of space. Poetic thoughts aside, the game starts off smoothly with a shrill little screech of Madam Hooch's whistle.

It's actually a rather good game because of our victory. But Ron didn't play well, and it is evident to everyone in the stands because his fumbles are impossible to miss. In response to his less-than-stellar Keeper skills, Slytherin starts up an insufferable round of 'Weasley Is Our King'. It takes everything inside of me to not hex one of the slimy little gits into oblivion. Godric knows that they deserve it. The thing is, my name is also Weasley and while I am not a king and the song isn't about me, it sure damn well is an insult to my brother and that is something I cannot tolerate.

I stand up furiously when the chorus of the Godric-awful song starts up again, even louder than the last time the Slytherins chanted it.

"WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN,  
HE ALWAYS LETS THE QUAFFLE IN. . .

WEASLEY WILL MAKE SURE WE WIN  
WEASLEY IS OUR KING!

WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN. . .

WEASLEY CANNOT SAVE A THING

THAT IS WHY SLYTHERINS ALL SING:  
WEASLEY IS OUR KING!"

You, however, beat me to the punch when you and George attack Malfoy. I'm torn between congratulating you for your excellent right hook to Malfoy's pointy little rodent face and hating you for not letting _me_ be the one to punch the arrogant intolerable bastard.

Then Professor Umbridge does the unthinkable and confiscates yours, George's, and Fred's broomsticks. She denies the three of you the right to play Quidditch for the rest of your lives. I'm to replace you as Gryffindor Seeker, apparently. That's a load of rubbish since everybody knows I kick ass at Chaser and am only mediocre at Seeker. Malfoy, that damn smug toadying toe rag, gets off scot-free, of course.

.

.

It's Christmas time. 'Tis the season to be jolly and all that sappy hippogriff shit. There's nothing really to be happy for at the moment, though. Dad's been maimed at the Ministry. He is doing alright now, thanks to you. That dream you had about him being attacked by a snake in the Department of Mysteries was apparently true, and you saved him from death by alerting Dumbledore of what you saw in your dream. Or nightmare, as it should be called.

Everyone is in gloomy spirits. Besides the fact that Dad almost died, Percy didn't come home for the holidays for the first time and he sent back his Christmas sweater that Mum knitted for him this year. That wasn't what depressed everybody, though. Well, at least not me. And the twins. And Ron. None of us really care to be subjected to Percy's holier-than-thou judgment.

No, what makes me miserable is the fact that you've closed yourself off from everybody. Now, this is not the first time that you have done this, but it hurts me as much as it did last year. You mope around Grimmauld Place as if you have nothing better to do than to pity yourself and blame yourself for the fact that everybody you get close to dies or gets hurt at some point.

I'm not one for bullshit or the bitchy attitude of a hormonal fifteen year old boy, so I confront you to knock some sort of sense into you. (And so you will quit the whole goth thing. Lately you've tried the dark-and-mysterious style but in all honesty, you come off looking sullen and stupid.)

"Hey," I say, cornering you by the staircase. There's no escape unless you leave Grimmauld Place, engage in a long and painful conversation with Mum while you help her out with the dishes, or hex me and continue merrily up the stairs. Considering that you would never want to leave Grimmauld place if you were given the choice, abhor dishes (you call them a cruel and unusual punishment to which Hermione laughed her ass off. Must be a Muggle reference.), and are certainly not merry, I am not surprised that you cave and tell me what's been going on with you these days.

"Hullo," you say cautiously. You know what I'm up to, and I can see that you hate me for intervening in your silent-and-tortured artistic lifestyle or whatever you're calling it.

"Nice day, isn't it." It's not a question.

"Very nice," you agree. "Would be nicer if you would let me past you."

"Hmm." I don't move.

We stand there in the hallway for a few tense and awkward moments.

"Something you wanted?" you ask, reluctantly accepting that I'm not going to leave until you give me the truth and nothing but the truth, so help me Godric.

"As a matter of fact, yes," I say pleasantly. "What's with the whole silent thing?"

"I didn't want anyone to talk to me."

I furrow my brow. "Well, that was a bit stupid of you, seeing as how you don't know anyone but me who's been possessed by You-Know-Who, and I can tell you how it feels."

You open your mouth, close it, scowl, and then open it again. "What brought you to that conclusion?"

I roll my eyes. "Because I know that you've been fretting over that dream. I heard you tell Dumbledore that you were the snake. And You-Know-Who controls Nagini, his snake, right?"

"Right." You look into my eyes, a trifle bit apologetic. "Erm, I didn't mean to bring up the whole Chamber of Secrets incident."

I shrug. "Doesn't bother me," I lie, my voice deceptively light. You still haven't learned to detect when I lie. "I'm pretty sure He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was not controlling you, Harry. The fact that you remember everything in your dream is proof that you were not being manipulated. When Riddle made me do things, I had no recollection of them. Like the whole Mrs Norris episode? I would have never known that I was the one who did it if you hadn't rescued me from the Chamber of Secrets and told me everything that had happened."

A look of relief floods your face when I tell you that You-Know-Who probably didn't possess you. "Ginny, I don't think you realise how happy I am to hear that."

"What, that I petrified Filch's cat?" I joke.

You chuckle and gone is the brooding façade that you've been sporting ever since your dream about the snake attack. "No, dork. Although the twins were pretty glad to see that tattletale be out of commission for awhile."

I smile up at you. "Glad to be of help," I say softly and make a grand sweeping gesture toward the stairs as I move out of the way. "Mum's making stuffed turkey and mashed potatoes tonight, as well as anything else that's festive that she can think up. Merry Christmas, Harry."

.

.

After a few days upon returning to Hogwarts, I and a few other D.A. members are abruptly and rather rudely pulled into Umbridge's lair. The toad of a woman is grinning evilly at us, and once I glimpse around the room, I see that you and most, if not all, of Dumbledore's Army is assembled in front of the High Inquisitor. This does not seem to bode well.

Two girls in particular stand out. One is covered in bright red unsightly sores that spell out SNEAK. Cho is crying pitiful tears beside her.

Immediately, everyone in D.A. knows what has happened. It's kind of hard not to know when the truth is glaring bright red in our faces. Well, more like Marietta Edgecombe's face.

We've been ratted out to Umbridge.

.

.

Uncomfortable chairs, the scratching of quills, blood-tainted parchment, detention that is literally torture. . . . I hope you don't chase another girl, Harry, because they all have air for brains and lying bitches for best friends. Except for me, of course. But, as Umbridge has so politely asked me to do, _I must not tell lies_.

.

.

Don't forget the battle in the Department of Mysteries. Don't forget the prophecy concerning you and the Dark Lord. Don't forget about the look on Bellatrix's face when she murdered Sirius and he fell backwards in the Whispering Veil. Don't forget Lucius's promises he never intended to keep or the way the Death Eaters thought they could overpower us. Don't forget the triumph and sense of accomplishment Luna, Neville, Hermione, Ron, and I felt when we actually had to use those spells you taught us in D.A. Don't forget how you refused to be conquered by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and subdued him by showing him the power of love. Don't forget how so many of us would willingly die for you and what you represent: freedom from this dark, oppressive world that limits those who are not Purebloods. Don't forget that Michael and I broke up and he is now dating Cho. Don't forget the fear and adrenaline that flowed through your veins when you thought Sirius was in danger. Don't forget the way Dumbledore duelled You-Know-Who. Don't forget your Occlumency lessons and the detentions with Umbridge.

But most importantly, Harry, please don't forget about me.

* * *

**Author's Note: Ya'll are superheroes for reviewing. Cheers!  
**


	5. Fifth Year

**Author's Note: Yes, _Brave_ came out in 2012 but I love Merida's hair so I *had* to compare it to Ginny's. And yeah, I quote _You Thought I Would Forget_ a little bit in this chapter. It's a good thing I am the author of that fic ;) I also quote _Half-Blood Prince_. No, I'm not the author of that one.  
**

**PS: Oops. I just realised that I keep getting Lee Jordan and Dean Thomas mixed up. Yeah, um, so Fred and George aren't really besties with Dean like they are with Lee, but whatever.**

* * *

**_Fifth Year_**

"HARRY!"

Suddenly I am being knocked to the ground when a bushy-haired, buck-toothed, know-it-all pushes past me in hurried excitement. I lie there, stunned. The world starts spinning even though I am lying still. Overhead, the sky is such a pretty, dizzying blue. The lush emerald-green grass feels like it's tickling my sides. From my new point of view on the ground, the blooming flowers in Mum's garden look like delicate puffs painting a vibrant show of fireworks amongst the clouds. A stray gnome from the garden that Hermione and I were supposed to be de-gnoming at the moment is nibbling on the shell of my ear. Without warning, the little bastard bites me.

"Ahh! Fuck you!" I scream and wrench my head away from the ill-mannered gnome. "Get away from me! Thou art a flesh-monger, a fool, and a coward!"

A shadow in the shape of you blocks out the sun. You pry the feisty son of a bitch off of my ear and then sternly reprimand him before flinging the gnome over the garden wall. Thank you, Superman, for saving my ear from getting gnome-rabies or whatever the fatal disease is called when a little garden statue man thing attacks a person and inflicts serious bodily harm.

"And hello to you too, Ginny," you say with a smirk at my foul language. "What was that you said? Something from _Measure for Measure_?"

I sit up from the grass and roll my eyes at your pretentious grin. "For your information, Shakespeare does have some good insults," I tell you primly.

Your smirk gets even bigger.

"In fact, last year I wish I had told Umbridge that she was 'as loathsome as a toad'. Very apt, don't you think?" I continue on. "That quote was probably the only thing that stood out to me in _Titus Adronicus_."

An odd and perplexing expression replaces your smirk as I blether on about Shakespearian snubs. "Ginny," you say, your brow furrowing in concern. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

The tips of your ears glow a burning red. "Erm, well, it looked like your head took a hard tumble when Hermione bowled you over."

"It was an accident!" Hermione interjects loudly before I can ask you if there is anything the matter with _you. _Since when did you start caring about my health and well-being? Hermione hastens immediately to my side and helps me stand up. "I'm sorry. It's just, you know, the shock of seeing Harry here—"

"No harm, no foul," I placate her. Also, I want her to shut up before she accidentally reveals anything about my feelings towards you in her alacrity to apologise. I turn to you. "Harry, what are you doing here?"

You respond: "Wow, Gin, you sure know how to make a guy feel welcome."

In answer, I run and fiercely wrap my arms around you like Hermione did. "How's that for a welcome?" I ask.

"It's an improvement." You give me a brotherly squeeze – which is what I had expected but I wish you would stop seeing me as just Ron's little sister – and surprisingly, I am the first to let go. When we've stopped hugging and are a few steps out of each other's personal space, you take a deep breath and run a hand through your hair, messing it up even more than it had been originally. "Surprise," you tell Hermione and me with a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. Something horrible must have happened to you this summer to make you so unwilling to reveal what this surprise is. "I'm staying at The Burrow for the rest of the summer. Dumbledore's orders."

.

.

These last couple of summer weeks at The Burrow consists of me hiding out in my bedroom, as I try to avoid the French popularity queen and her nosey kiss-ass attitude towards Mum and me. Ever since she and Bill announced their engagement, it has been the-wedding-this and the-wedding-that or red hair will look mah-velous with this shade of gunmetal silver if it's paired with periwinkle or Molly, please try to get Ginevra to wear make-up, she has an _incredible_ complexion and should highlight those cheekbones of hers.

Erm, correct me if I am wrong, but I am not Fleur's Barbie doll to dress up as she pleases. My name is Ginny – _not_ Barbie – and I absolutely re_fuse_ to get sucked into this whole wedding mess. It's not even for another year, for Merlin's sake!

Nobody is pleased about Bill's and Fleur's engagement except for Bill, Charlie, and Dad. And maybe Percy, but his opinion does not really count anymore. Fred and George and Ron don't like it because it means Fleur will now be off-limits for them to gawk at and admire. Typical males. Come to think of it, maybe that is the same reason why you don't particularly approve of the engagement. Hermione, Mum, and I are displeased because we have a feeling that Fleur, with her snooty French aristocratic upbringing, will turn into a bride-zilla nightmare.

I also hate her because her voice annoys the hippogriff shit out of me. It's always 'like, oh my God' or 'you know?' or 'like, yeah' in that awful Parisian accent of hers that makes her sound like she is coughing up phlegm all the time. And truly, Fleur is, like, the epitome of a supermodel and a girly-girl. That automatically makes her an enemy of me, a Quidditch-playing tomboy. Fleur is always getting on my case about how even if I don't wear mascara I should curl my lashes and that my hair needs to be flat-ironed before my flaming, tangled locks strangle me or something. And then she goes and compares my hair to that Scottish girl's in the Disney film _Brave_. Er, pardon me, but even though I may not look like I just came from a photo shoot like Phlegm does, I _do_ know what a brush is and how to use it. Thanks for the insult, though.

"Knock knock," I hear you say from outside of my bedroom door. Two short and sweet taps on the wood accompany your words, interrupting me from the argument I am having with Fleur in my mind.

"Harry!" I all but shout and leap off my bed in excitement. I rush to the door and open it. You're standing there, hands in your pocket and kind of confused as to why I am pretty much vibrating with happiness. You smile widely when you see me, and before I can stop myself, I am hugging you tightly.

"Hey, Gin," you say easily as you hug me back. "Er, not that I don't mind but what is with all this hugging lately?"

I shrug. "I dunno. I haven't seen you in forever, Harry. Don't you think that warrants me a couple of hugs before you remember that girls have cooties?"

You laugh as you recall the days when touching a girl was repulsive to your eleven-year-old mind. "Hey! Give me some credit, Ginny. I grew up with a cousin who only hung out with girls if they told yo-mama's-so-fat jokes. Although, in their case, it was true..."

"Harry!" I exclaim in a shocked voice while hiding giggles behind my hand.

"What?" you ask, blinking innocently at me. "It's true."

Snickering, I roll my eyes. "Of course it is. I don't doubt you on that." I then gesture to the inside of my bedroom. "Did you wanna come in or something?"

Mr Potter, is it just me or do I see a blush staining your cheeks? Hmm. Interesting, indeed. I bite my lip to keep the self-satisfied smile off my face. Who knew that I could elicit such a scandalous reaction from you?

"Erm," you hesitate, although your eyes dart towards my bedroom in the general direction of – where else? – my bed. The blush turns darker and you fidget in my doorway. "Er, well, I actually...erm, I came to talk to you a-about..." You stammer and stutter your way through the sentence as that beautiful blush colouring your cheeks shows no sign of disappearing anytime soon.

"About?" I prompt you gently.

"Ron'll have my head on a stick if I go into your room!" you blurt out all of the sudden.

"Oh," I blink. "Erm, yes. That sounds like him." Mentally, I curse my over-protective brother. He's one of the main reasons why I think you still view me as his little sister and not someone who is available for you to date. "We can talk out here if it suits you better."

A look of pure relief settles onto your face. "Yes. Please. That would be brilliant."

"Alright," I say. I lean up against my doorway, opposite of you, and look into your eyes expectantly. "So?"

Immediately you become flustered and nervous. You run a hand through your hair, one of your tell-tale signs that you are uncomfortable. Of what, I do not know. You still haven't told me your reason for dropping by my room today.

"I...well, I just..." your voice trails off as you search for the words to express what you're trying to tell me. Your face turns solemn and serious and I cannot help but wonder if something bad has happened. "Ginny, do you remember that you promised to listen to me whenever I needed to talk?"

"Yes," I say slowly, wondering where you are trying to get at with this.

You let out a gigantic, gusty sigh. "Alright," you say in an attempt to psyche yourself up. "Alright. Here goes."

I wait patiently for the big reveal. And I wait. And I keep waiting. But you're silent for the better part of the five minutes that have come to pass since you gave yourself that little pep talk, and you are showing no sign that you are about to speak anytime soon.

"Harry," I say softly after I cannot bear the quietness anymore. I step towards you and slowly take your glasses off so I can look clear into your eyes. "Harry, what's going on?"

Your shoulders slump and suddenly you are a little boy who looks lost and alone as he tries to fight off the monsters that haunt him in nightmares. "I don't know," you confess in all honesty, your voice breaking a little at the end. "I just don't know, anymore."

"Oh," I say and my heart shatters a little as I feel you begin to crack into pieces. It is all catching up to you now, the whole fame and superhero thing, and the pressure of trying to save the world is tearing you apart. No one could have ever saved you from this, and we all knew it was going to happen sooner rather than later. I find it all rather selfish of the world to expect miracles just from the actions of one person named Harry James Potter. We all placed you on a pedestal so you could be our saviour from the Dark Lord, and by doing so, we lay all the blame of everything that happens in the wizarding world onto your shoulders. It's not fair and we inadvertently ruined your life. For that, I am so sorry, Harry. No one deserves the responsibility we forced upon you.

I move towards you to hug you once more. "I'm scared and so afraid, Ginny," you tell me. "I don't want to admit it but I _have_ to tell somebody."

I rub your back soothingly. "I am glad you told me," I whisper into your ear. "Is it the fear of You-Know-Who?"

"I don't _fear_ him," you correct me firmly. "But I'd be a fool not to be freaked out by him and his constant death wish on me." You rest your chin on my shoulder and say, "He's just...become really _vengeful _lately, you know? And right now, I am far away from Hogwarts and Dumbledore's protection. Who's to say that Voldemort will not attack at any moment?"

We both know that I cannot guarantee you anything concerning the Dark Lord's offensive plan, but I do tell you, "I promise that I'll never let you go. When He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named attacks, you have my word that I will be right here next to you."

.

.

Diagon Alley is crowded, but then again, it always is the few couple of weeks before fall term starts. I cannot wait to be a Fifth Year (only two more years after this one until graduation!) but the prospect of OWLs momentarily puts a damper on my excitement. However, visiting Fred and George's new shop, Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, raises my spirits. It's awfully nice to catch up with my brothers during their grand tour of their store. The place is packed and I can tell that they are easily going to be living a comfortable life off of their newfound riches. The twins let you get free samples of whatever you want, much to Ron's dismay whom they have denied that luxury. I am completely lovestruck when I catch sight of the pet Pygmy Puffs. They are incredibly too adorable to resist buying one of them. The twins don't let me have the fluffy puff ball for free, but they do give me a half-price family discount. Ron, on the other hand, has to pay full price for anything he dares to touch.

The Pygmy Puff is adorable and cooing contentedly as I stroke its cotton candy-pink fur. A flash of movement in my peripheral vision catches my eye, and I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of whatever captured my attention. I find myself looking out the store-front window to where you, Ron, and Hermione are trying but failing to remain inconspicuous as you slip from the not-so-watchful eyes of our chaperones. A glint of platinum-blonde hair a few paces in front of you allows me to make an educated guess as to who you three are spying on.

I won't breathe a word of your latest mischief to my parents, but don't forget that we are leaving Diagon Alley at two o'clock sharp.

.

.

What the hell is the Slug Club? The name sounds positively revolting. No offense, of course. I look around the Hogwarts Express train compartment I am currently standing in. It is filled with a variety of students and a paunchy professor who looks like he's had one too many. Some students I have seen before, some I haven't, but I know the names of every single one of them because they have famous parents or connections to famous witches and wizards in the magical world. Is this some sort of social connections club? If it is, count me out. I have no desire to be networking and kissing other people's asses when I could be practising my Chaser skills out on the Quidditch Pitch or making out with Dean Thomas, my boyfriend as of eighteen minutes ago when he helped me load my trunk onto the train and then kissed me senseless. I hope Fred and George do not find out his little act of kindness because it would most likely end up with the twins punching him despite their long friendship. I rather like Dean's face.

Abruptly, you and Neville come bursting in. Your eyes widen comically when you see me here. Then they narrow and you mouth the word '_Dean?!'_ as if it is the vilest thing you could say. I have no idea as to how you know about my relationship with him already but I calmly mouth back '_Yes, Dean_'. Instantaneously, your eyes turn thunderous and your jaw clenches.

I cannot handle this. Hastily, I stand up. All eyes swivel to focus on me. Undeterred by the unwanted attention of so many people, I bid farewell to the professor and his ridiculous Slug Club. He looks at me incredulously as if he cannot believe that someone would deliberately throw away their exclusive invitation to his privileged social organisation. Whatever.

The Slug Club is pointless and a waste of time. And there is absolutely no way I could survive their little meetings if you were there. You still see me as Ron's little sister, which is something I am not okay with. It was so obvious in your over-protective brotherly reaction when I confirmed mine and Dean's relationship that you think of me as family.

I am _not_ your sister.

.

.

This year, you are Gryffindor's newest Quidditch Captain. Oh, we are _definitely_ going to win the House Cup. However, tryouts are absolutely a bloody nightmare. So many simpering girls and awestruck guys have come down to the Pitch in hopes of securing a spot on the team even though most of them have never played competitive Quidditch before, let alone have flown a broom built for speed and agility rather than for leisure. And you have seemed to have your own fan club right now: the Potterheads have camped out in the stands, screaming their heads off as they cheer the most ludicrous things I have ever heard.

From what I can tell, you are completely bewildered by all of this new attention you are receiving. I heard Hermione explain to you the other night: "Oh, come on, Harry. It's not Quidditch that's popular, it's you! You've never been more interesting, and frankly, you've never been more fanciable."

Like I said, completely and absolutely absurd.

Dean, the sweetheart, braves all sorts of weather to come watch me practise and offer pointers on my flying and Chasing techniques. I think he is the Quidditch commentator for this year but I am not entirely sure of that fact. I know he's told me at least three times before. Must not be that important if I keep forgetting.

When it comes time to choosing people for the team, though, I hope you don't forget where I'll be flying and scoring goals while these other idiots try to tell one end of their broomstick from the other.

.

.

Late last night, Hermione confided to me that you've been visiting Dumbledore for secret, personal, one-on-one lessons. She's terribly worried about you, you know. She hates your new obsession with that Half-Blood Prince Potions textbook (although I think she is blinded more by jealousy than anything) and she isn't particularly fond of how it dabbles into the Dark Arts more often than not. Everybody is passing Potions this year since Snape is teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts, and according to Hermione you are not only passing Potions but you are _surpassing_ her in the class.

I know, I'm shocked too. But from what Professor Slughorn is saying, your mum had extraordinary talent in the subject. Maybe you inherited the knack for it...?

I hope you're safe, though. Hermione said you were investigating Malfoy's suspicious behaviour. You of all people should know that the ferret is nothing but trouble. She told me of your suspicions that he was the one to give Katie Bell the cursed necklace and the mysterious disappearing acts of his. Even though I know you won't, I do hope that you would just drop the whole matter for once and forget about saving the world person by person. You won't comply with my wish, though, because you are _Harry Potter_ and you have to rescue everyone from the Dark Lord's tyrannical rule before he annihilates you and all the 'inferior' races.

I just wish that there wasn't a fifty-percent chance that you could die in this big mess.

.

.

"Happy birthday, Ginny!" Dean proclaims and kisses me soundly on the lips as he presents me with a bouquet of something that is thankfully not picked from the Herbology greenhouses.

I accept his bouquet graciously, but I say in an awkward manner: "Erm, Dean? My birthday is in August. Not November."

Dean's face falls like a shooting star, and reflexively I close my eyes to make a wish. _I wish the flowers were from you, Harry._ When I open my eyes and come back to reality, Dean is looking at me funny, and I feel guilty for wishing for your affections instead of my boyfriend's.

"Oh. Er, happy un-birthday, then! Like in that Muggle book _Alice in Wonderland_, right?" Dean amends.

I shrug, not knowing the answer to his question. "I have no clue. Why don't we ask Harry? He would know if that's a Muggle book or not."

His face twists so fast that I wonder if Dean ate a sour lemon. "No, it's alright. It doesn't really matter, does it. I was just thinking, you know, those flowers looked pretty and that I should give them to you."

I smile courteously. "Well, thank you, Dean. They are quite lovely." The flowers he has picked are not lovely at all – they are slightly drooping and wilted, and the colours have been sun-bleached until they are almost a pale nothing. Nonetheless, I give him a peck on the cheek and he smiles contentedly as he wraps his arm around my waist.

"You should read the card, Ginevra," he tells me.

I _hate_ being called by my proper name, but no matter how many times I rectify him, he never calls me 'Ginny'. It's a lost cause, so I don't even bother correcting him anymore. To pacify Dean, I dutifully flip open the tiny card he attached to the stems of the wildflowers.

_To Ginevra. I love you. Dean._

It's the first time one of us has told the other those three magical words. It creates a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach but I squelch it and force myself to smile. "Thank you, Dean." I hope he does not notice that I did not say it back to him.

As we walk up towards the castle, though, I cannot help but wishing that the card was from you. Merlin knows how long I've waited to hear you speak those words in a romantic tense to me.

.

.

Christmas time is fast approaching, if the snowy and slushy weather has to do anything about it. Ron and Hermione are sort-of a thing now: she's out in the stands bundled up like an Eskimo to watch the Gryffindor Quidditch team – more specifically, my brother – be lectured by you about our upcoming game. We're not even doing anything exciting at the moment, yet Hermione is sitting near the Potterheads and cheering with them. I'll have to ask her to convert back to being just a regular Gryffindor spectator or to leave the stands. Those annoying Potterheads do _not_ need any more sort of encouragement.

Dean is now on the team as a replacement for Katie Bell while she recovers at St Mungo's from her incident with the cursed necklace. He is much more understanding about my lack of free time to spend with him snogging all over the castle now that he is experiencing how strenuous you've made the training schedule.

Right now, Dean is holding my hand. It's bothering you a lot because often during your talk, your eyes stray over to our loosely clasped hands and then this unexplainable scowl settles onto your face. Finally, when I think that scowl will become permanently etched upon your face, you dismiss the team for the night.

"Ginevra," Dean whispers into my ear, his breath hot. "Curfew's not for another hour, right? C'mon, I think there's a tapestry over by Gryffindor Tower that I'd like to study with you."

I know what he is clumsily trying to imply, and all I really want to do is go to sleep. Nonetheless, though, I find myself being pulled into his arms as we head into Hogwarts to go find this tapestry to 'study'.

.

"What the _fuck_?!" I hear Ron exclaim.

Suddenly the tapestry is pulled away, bringing in the light of the candle-lit halls in the castle. I turn my head, breaking mine and Dean's liplock. The first thing I see is your incredulous, furious, irrationally jealous face. But the first thing I hear are my brother's seething words.

"What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?" he bellows.

I roll my eyes at Ron. "Making passionate love to my boyfriend," I say. In my peripheral vision, I see you choke on air.

Ron's face turns an unsightly purple. "GINEVRA MOLLY WEASLEY—"

"Calm the fuck down, Ron!" I yell. "Dear Godric, can't you see that we were only kissing? And that our clothes are on? Merlin, use your eyes, dipshit!"

"WELL, I DON'T _WANT_ TO SEE—"

"I should sure hope not," I interrupt. "That would be nasty on so many levels." During the middle of this exchange, I realise that Dean has quietly slipped away out of the confrontation. It bothers me slightly that he is not man enough to face the wrath of Ron – Mum is way more intimidating and scary, by the way – but it's too late to do anything about it now.

"I don't want to see my little sister snogging in public!" Ron reiterates.

Huffing, I reply: "_Duh_. Why else do you think we were _behind_ a tapestry?"

"But that was still in public—"

"Anyways, it doesn't matter if I was snogging Dean in 'public' because my love life is not your business, Ronald!" I proclaim loudly, cutting off my brother's pathetic attempt at arguing with me. "You're just jealous because you have never kissed anyone – Hermione kissed Viktor Krum and even Harry has snogged before! So don't you be raising Azkaban over here just because Dean and I were sharing an _innocent_, little—"

"What I saw was far from 'innocent'," you ever-so-helpfully interject.

I whirl around to face you, my mouth open in shock. For as long as I can remember, you have always sided with me in an argument. And now you're deserting me for my brother's illogical opinion? Some superhero you are, Harry, if you won't even bother to save me from the clutches of my villainous brother.

"Nobody was asking for your opinion, Harry," I spit out in a voice full of venom. I push my way out of the alcove hidden behind the tapestry and rush up the stairs towards Gryffindor Tower, tears clouding my vision.

.

.

There is so much tension between everybody. Ron is mad at me for having a boyfriend. The asshole even told Fred and George so now the twins are royally pissed at Dean. Ron is mad at Hermione for kissing Viktor Krum. Hermione is mad at Ron for dating Lavender Brown in retaliation for her snogging Krum. You're mad at me for Godric knows why. You're also mad at Dean – probably because of the tapestry incident. I'm mad at you for your completely unnecessary fan club that is distracting everybody out on the pitch during practise. I am _furious_ at Romilda Vane for trying to drug you with a love potion inside of her gift of chocolates that instead made Ron act like an ass and piss Hermione off even more. I want revenge on the motherfucker who poisoned that bottle of mead that almost killed Ron. I want to kiss you for saving Ron's life with that Bezoar. I am sick and tired of Dean for being such a clingy boyfriend and his endeavours at trying to convert me into some helpless, weak female who needs to be saved and protected at all times. I am so happy that Ron decided to grow a pair of balls and apologise for his dipshit behaviour towards Hermione and me. Ron's mad at Cormac McLaggen, Hermione's newest love interest, who has decided to snag Ron's Keeper position on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Lavender's mad at Ron for ignoring her (bitch, my brother is confined in a hospital bed. There's not much Won-Won can actually do to dodge your jealous, vindictive self). You, Harry, are incredibly surprised that someone chose Luna to commentate at the next Quidditch game. Afterwards, you are livid at McLaggen for cracking your skull with a Beater's bat. Lavender's even madder at my brother when he unconsciously proclaims his love to Hermione; Hermione, on the other hand, is glowing with happiness at Ron's announcement. And then Dean is mad at me for deciding to split up with him.

I cannot believe that he didn't see it coming. I tried to be nice and gentle during the break-up, but...well, you know me. I'm not exactly the Queen of Tact.

.

.

"HARRY!" I shriek, storming up to you in the middle of Quidditch practise.

You glance at me warily from where you are standing in the middle of the Pitch, a bit of fear shining in your eyes. "Oh, shit," you mumble.

"'Oh, shit' is right!" I scream. "What's this that I hear you attacked Malfoy in the bathroom and now you're serving detention with Snape when you fully know well that _we have a match this Saturday night_?"

"Erm..."

I smack you across the face with my broomstick handle. "You fucking dumbass! Are you _try_ing to remove Gryffindor out of the running for the House Cup?"

"Of course not!" you shout back, clutching your reddened cheek that has a clear imprint of my broom handle. "I'm not-"

"I know you weren't thinking!" I interrupt, not giving a shit as to what you were going to say. "Dammit, Harry! How the bloody hell do you expect us to win _without_ a Seeker or a Captain? Against _Ravenclaw_, no less. They're going to murder us, Harry, and all because of your stupid, rash judgment and need to instigate a fight with-"

"Now, you listen to me, Ginny!" you interject loudly. Our Quidditch team has surrounded us, their eyes wide at the argument we're having. You point a finger in my face and say: "I'm still your Captain, and I expect you to treat me with respect. That slap wasn't by any means pleasant or nice but I don't blame you for hitting me. But I will _not_ tolerate you berating me and treating me like you're superior or-"

"I'll treat you with respect once you've _earned_ it, Harry," I say curtly. "Until then, you are damn inferior as the rest of us."

Your eyes narrow in anger. We glare at each other for a few, heated moments. "Fine," you say in a clipped voice. "So be it." You turn to the rest of the team and give them their instructions for practise. Once you are done addressing them, you turn to me and say tiredly: "You are benched for today's practise, Ginny."

"What?" I splutter incredulously.

"You heard me," you say in a voice that brooks no argument. "And then on Saturday, I expect you to take over my position as Seeker. You know how Cho flies and her strategies. I'm counting on your animosity with her to fuel your competitive streak and kicking ass so we win for the House Cup. You will _not_ disappoint me."

I hate being ordered around but something inside of me tells me to hold my tongue for once. "Alright," I say brusquely. You know how well I detest the orders you have just given me but I'll carry them out for the sake of the team. "I hope you realise that if you had minded your own fucking business, Harry, I would not hate you right now."

.

Apparently I've been named the temporary team Captain for tonight's game ever since the team realised that you and I are pretty much equals as evident from our verbal fight the other day. I know Quidditch inside and out and Gryffindor is holding our own against Ravenclaw, but it is glaringly obvious that I am not as good of a captain as you are when I fuck up some of the plays and Ravenclaw scores a couple of goals on us. I know some of my teammates are wishing the calls were from you when I see them itching to argue with me on the flying routines I call out to them. However, I must be doing something right, because it's the red-and-gold that takes the trophy home tonight.

.

.

"Quid agis?" I hear you ask the Fat Lady outside the portrait hole.

"Shh!" I hiss to all the Gryffindors. Silence befalls upon the room as we wait with bated breath for your entrance. Someone hiccups, their breath stinking of firewhiskey – no one confessed as to who smuggled in the alcohol so we all blamed Fred and George (who weren't even enrolled at Hogwarts anymore) for the supply of drinks – and all of us clamoured to shush the person.

You stumble in through the portrait hole, a look of shocked happiness on your face as you take in the party going on all around you. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Ron races towards you with the silver House Cup in his hands.

"We won!" he exclaims unnecessarily. "Four hundred and fifty to a hundred and forty! We won!"

"Congratulations!" you grin, but your eyes are skating over Ron's excited face and searching the room for something...or someone. When your eyes meet mine, your smile becomes sincere. You make your way to me, not caring that everyone's eyes are on you. "You did it, Gin," you whisper. "You won the game for us." And then to everyone's surprise – including me – you lean down and snog me senseless.

I don't hesitate to participate. After I get over the split-second shock that _you_ are the one who started the kiss, I wrap my arms around your neck enthusiastically and stand on my tiptoes. It's completely magical, the way your lips fit perfectly against mine. You are so close that I can feel your heartbeat sync with mine. When you nip at my top lip, I'm confused at first but then your tongue pushes gently yet insistently into my mouth. Oh my Godric, Harry, you taste like heaven. I don't think I ever want to stop.

You are not a mind reader, however, and pull away all too soon. Your breath is ragged and inconsistent. "Erm," you say embarrassedly. "I hope you didn't mind that."

I raise my eyebrows and smile at you. "Just as long as you don't mind that I made your ex-girlfriend cry."

"I'd take your happiness over Cho's any day," you respond and tug me to you so we can begin to kiss again.

I commit that promise to my memory before I let myself enjoy the feeling of being in your arms and being kissed until my brain can no longer process anything but the sound of your voice and how your lips feel on mine.

You pull away again and peer into my eyes anxiously. "You'll be my girlfriend, right?"

"Depends on if you ask," I tease.

"Be my girlfriend." It isn't a question.

I giggle and kiss your face. "No."

The look of shock you are wearing is priceless. You quickly recover and kiss me back. "Be my girlfriend."

"No."

"Ginny," you plead. "I love you. Please be my girlfriend."

"I've loved you since the very first day," I respond. "That line isn't gonna work on me."

Then you do the unthinkable and get down on one knee.

"Harry!" I admonish. "Are you..._proposing_ to me?"

You wink and take one of my hands in yours. "Ginny, will you do me the immense honour and be my..." The entire Gryffindor Tower waits in awe for your next word. "...girlfriend?" A few people boo and laugh while some others – like Dean and Ron – are fiercely glad that you did not make a marriage proposal to me.

"Well, since you so kindly asked," I drawl out, laughing at your antics. You really did have me scared for a moment, Mr Potter. "Of course. I do. 'Til death do us apart."

And that's how you and me became engaged as boyfriend and girlfriend. And, depending on who is interpreting the story, fiancé and fiancée.

.

.

Nothing really changes now that we're a couple. Hermione even tells me it feels like we've been a couple for so much longer than the four days that we have been together. The gossip around school is frivolous but particularly vicious since the Potterheads now have to compete with me for your affections. I win hands down, of course. Romilda Vane is the worst, though. You'd think people had better things to gossip about...three Dementor attacks in a week, and all she does is ask if it's true you've got a hippogriff tattooed across your chest. I tell her it's a little lower, below your belly button _if you know what I mean_, and she turned bright red and spluttered outrageously at me. Ha, take that, Romilda Vane.

You open your mind up to me more, and often we take little strolls along the lakeshore so we can take a break from the pressure of Hogwarts and just _be_ with each other. You tell me more about your fears and your suspicions and you thoughts and dreams. I learn that you talk in your sleep and that you love to say my name in the same sentence as 'I love you'.

I love you, too, Harry. Forever and always.

.

.

One day, you and Dumbledore disappear from school grounds. Professor McGonagall and Hermione tell me not to worry, but after weeks of spending so much time with you, your absence is acutely noticeable.

When Death Eaters start infiltrating Hogwarts, I think it is safe to say that maybe we _should_ worry.

There are bright lights and cackling voices emanating from the Astronomy Tower. All of the sudden, there's a blinding flash of green and then somebody is falling spread-eagled out of the edifice. I pause and squint from the window where I am at so I can identify who it is. I hope it's not you. I don't think it is – this person is (I mean _was_ because that was definitely a Killing Curse that was performed on them) tall and elderly looking and there's this long-ass beard that is a trademark to only one person I know of...

No. It can't be. I jerk away from the window so I cannot see the revered, infallible, great Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry fall to his death. It cuts me to the core that Professor Dumbledore, the greatest wizard I have ever known, is...is...

"Ginny!" Hermione shouts. "It's going to be like the battle at the Department of Mysteries. You ready?"

I smile grimly. "As ready as I'll ever be."

.

.

"HARRY!" I scream as soon as I catch sight of your familiar untidy black hair. Your green eyes are wild and stricken with grief. My heart aches for you but now is not the time for kisses that make everything better.

"Gin...," you breathe out in relief and stumble into my waiting arms. "Ginny."

You smell like sweat, tears, and the outside. "C'mon," I say and guide you in the direction of the infirmary. I have no idea if you are injured but I figure that seeing Madam Pomfrey would be the best route to finding out how many are injured and the outcome of the battle.

"He...he g-got...that fucking coward got away!" you mutter in frustration.

"Who?" I inquire. "You-Know-Who?"

"I wish," you say bitterly. "If only it was him." You shake your head vigorously. "That damn son of a bitch," you curse. "Fucking _Snape_ out of all people."

I almost stop in surprise. "A professor killed Professor Dumbledore?"

You flinch at the reminder of Professor Dumbledore's death. "Where are we going?" you ask, quickly changing the subject.

"The infirmary."

"I'm not hurt."

I bite my lip. "I know. But my brother was."

Your eyes widen in sympathy and guilt for thinking only about yourself. "Which one?"

I open the doors leading into the infirmary. All of my family is crowded around one bed where William Arthur Weasley is lying, his eyes closed and his skin coloured with death. "Bill," I whisper.

You squeeze me reassuringly as Madam Pomfrey approaches. She fusses over you for a bit and then turns to inform me that Bill is very much alive since Fenrir Greyback bit him when he wasn't a full werewolf. She then goes over to Bill's bedside and tries to medically calm Mum down with a potion.

You, me, and Dad exchange a glance. We know that Bill's injury will be the first of many. The Second Wizarding War has just begun.

.

.

Professor Dumbledore's funeral is a sad, beautiful, and tragic love affair. The rain is misting, making it seem as if the skies are crying alongside all of the attendees standing here as we wait to pay our last respects to Professor Dumbledore. He is encased in a magnificent white marble tomb, his wand in his forever-stilled hands.

"Ginny," you whisper, your voice cracking a little at the end of my name. "We can't be together."

I turn towards you with tears in my eyes from watching Professor Dumbledore say goodbye to the last breath of fresh air he'll ever take before a wizard magically seals his tomb. "What?"

You hug me tightly in your arms and kiss the top of my head over and over. "Please don't think that I do not love you because I do. I love you so much, Ginny, and this is why I have to do this." I feel your Adam's apple bob in your throat as you try to rein in your emotions. "Voldemort kills everyone he thinks I am close to. I can't – Ginny, I can_not_ let him know that you mean the world to me. If the next funeral I am attending is yours..."

"Shh," I tell you, my voice sad since we both know that I will accept whatever decision you come to make about our relationship. "I never gave up on you when we were younger, Superman. And now, I trust you again to save the world and me once more."

You pull away and search my eyes. "I have to leave for a very long time," you murmur apologetically. "I won't be returning to Hogwarts next year. But I'll do everything in my power to return back to you."

"Not Cho," I demand firmly.

"Not Cho," you agree.

We stare at each other, trying to memorise each other's face to store in our minds for when things start to become tough. And even though it hurts me so much – I mean, I just got you! – I understand why you have to break things off with me.

"Harry. It's fine. I'll be fine." I stand on my tiptoes and kiss you softly. "Kick some Death Eater ass for me, alright?"

Then I have to forcibly look away from those mesmerising green eyes of yours because all my strength will crumble away if I see those shimmering tears drop down your face. I want to tell you that I've loved you from the very first day I saw you but I know that will only make it so much harder to end our relationship. So instead, I mouth _I love you_ because my heart will permanently break in two if I say those three words aloud to you for the last time.

From the answering squeeze on the palm of my hand, I know that you heard me loud and clear.


	6. (the summer before) Sixth Year

**Author's Note: Hi. _Deathly Hallows _is quoted in this chapter. JKRowling wrote those bits. I wrote the rest of this shit.**

* * *

**(The Summer Before) **_**Sixth Year**_

From the front garden of The Burrow, I watch my brothers and Dad and the fearless members of the Order of the Phoenix fly away to go save you, Superman, from the Death Eaters that are patrolling the skies until the day of your seventeenth birthday when your mum's enchanted protection will be lifted from you. Mad-Eye Moody has created this ornately detailed, extremely extravagant plan to sneak you out of your house on Privet Drive. We all know that nothing is fool-proof but everybody is almost absolutely positive that nothing will go wrong tonight.

.

.

I've been inside, waiting anxiously for everyone to show up. Ron and Tonk's Portkey came back a quarter past ago; no one had travelled along with it. Mum started to really worry when Dad and Fred's Portkey also showed up empty-handed.

There is a sudden giant-sized crash in the garden. It should be you and Hagrid this time, but I will myself not to get my hopes too high. If it is you and Hagrid, the crash should've sounded _half_-giant sized and not giant-sized.

Mum and I come running down the steps by the back door, expecting the worse. There is a figure of your height and build that is on his hands in knees. When it stands up, swaying ever-so-precariously, I gasp when I recognise you and your crooked glasses. I want to run into your arms and kiss you senseless and never let you go, but then I remember the plan and how there are seven Harry Potters tonight. I could be kissing Fred, for all I know. Or even worse, Mundungus Fletcher. I make a face and look away towards the other person who fell as a distraction from my thoughts.

"Harry? You are the real Harry? What happened? Where are the others?" Mum demands as if you know all the answers.

"What d'you mean? Isn't anyone else back?" you pant as you try to catch your breath from your crash-landing and the adrenaline rush of whatever had happened in the skies.

Mum doesn't answer you. You start to ramble on about what happened: something about a Death Eater ambush and everyone got split up and then You-Know-Who was there...but then Mum interrupts you as your voice rises with hysteria and she wraps you in a tight hug as she says, "Thank goodness you're all right."

Hagrid then asks Mum for some brandy for 'medicinal purposes' and she rushes inside to compose herself and fetch him the brandy. In her absence, you turn to me, your troubled green eyes begging for answers.

I swallow thickly and update you on who is missing and that you and Hagrid are the first ones to arrive at The Burrow. Then I check my watch and inform you that George and Lupin are to arrive next. What I don't tell you, however, is that I love you and I am so glad that you are safe.

.

.

George lost an ear during the skirmish in the air tonight against the Death Eaters. In the corner of my eye, I see you tense when Lupin informs everybody it was Snape's _Sectumsempra_ that cursed George's ear off. I want to reach out to you and touch you in reassurance because I know you are itching to avenge Professor Dumbledore's death, but then I remember that we are no longer a couple and I cannot do those sorts of things anymore.

When you broke up with me, I knew it had to be done. You didn't end our relationship because you didn't love me. You didn't end it saying: "We are never, ever getting back together. Like, ever" because I can assure you, I never heard those words come out of your mouth. You didn't end it because you thought I was a bad kisser or that you'd rather be with Cho (Merlin, I'll _Avada_ you myself if you ever ditch me for her). You broke up with me to make sure He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would not know how much we love each other because it seems to be the Dark Lord's signature move to kill anyone you get close to.

But when we broke up, I did not realise it meant that you didn't want to be friends anymore. You have hardly looked me in the eye since you arrived, Harry, and Ron and Hermione received a more heartfelt greeting than you gave me. You haven't bothered to touch me or hug me or even say my name. A couple of times I see you head in my direction but then you are always intercepted by someone in the Order.

Bill arrives, bringing the grim news that Mad-Eye is dead. I bite my lip and immediately feel ashamed for worrying about such petty matters like our ill-fated relationship when there are people dying in this world You-Know-Who has practically taken over.

But I still do not stop dreaming of a world where you are just a boy and I am just a girl and we could fall in love without all of these obstacles in our life.

.

.

We are setting the table for dinner your third night here when you let slip the secret plans that Mum has been asking incessantly about.

"I think Mum thinks that if she can stop the three of you getting together and planning, she'll be able to delay you leaving," I say under my breath to you as we place the forks on the left of every plate and the knives on the right by the spoons. A few minutes early, you had told me about your suspicions of Mum not letting you, Ron, and Hermione spend any time together these past few days when she loaded everybody up on chores.

"And then what does she think's going to happen?" you mutter. "Someone else might kill of Voldemort while she's holding us here making vol-au-vents?"

I hesitate as my face pales. "So it's true?" I ask. "That's what you're trying to do?" Oh, Merlin, _no _Harry, that is the worst plan ever. It's bloody suicidal and...and...

"I – not – I was joking," you stammer out an obvious lie.

I stare at you unbelievingly. I know there is shock plainly written all over my face. But as the seconds tick by, I begin to realise that this is the first that that we have been alone together since our stolen moments around the lake at Hogwarts last year. Judging from the shift in the colour of your eyes, you're remembering them too. The moment is broken, however, when Kingsley, Bill, and my father walk in.

I hastily set the rest of the table and avoid you for the rest of the night. Being around you reminds me just how much of a magical fairytale our relationship was last year.

.

.

You've got a busy day today helping to prepare The Burrow for Bill and Fleur's wedding tomorrow. After that, I know you, Ron, and Hermione have plans to go save the world. I feel a little jealous that you three have not included me in your arrangements but I know you're trying to protect me as best as you can by keeping me out of harm's way. I guess I'll just have to find another way to help you defeat the Dark Lord even though I will be at Hogwarts.

I'll be around, waiting for you forever and ever until you trounce You-Know-Who and we can live out some sort of happily ever after made just for you and me.

.

.

"Harry?" I call out. "Will you come in here a moment?"

You oblige, stepping into my room for the first time. You look around, taking in the poster of the Weird Sisters and the one of Gwenog Jones, Captain of the Holyhead Harpies, which decorates my otherwise blank walls. When you eyes glance curiously into mine, I take a deep breath.

"Happy seventeenth."

"Yeah. . . thanks."

You sound rather apathetic towards your birthday. I mean, it must be great having The Trace – the thing that lets the Ministry know about underage magic – be lifted off. And you are seventeen (!) today; what's not to like about that?

I look at you evenly, trying to understand you and your enigmatic thoughts. You keep your eyes focused off my face, and the shadows of my room dance around you as the darkness threatens to extinguish the light in your eyes.

"Nice view," you say after the silence becomes too loud. You point weakly towards my window.

I don't respond to your feeble attempt at small talk. It feels so odd to be conversing with you even though it shouldn't feel so weird. One day we were so in love and the lucky ones to finally be with each other; now, we're standing alone in my empty room and we're barely speaking. And I'm dying to know: is it killing you like it's killing me, Harry? I don't know what to say since a twist of fate and it all broke down...and I just wish time could go back and we could live in the past when everything was perfect and right. But then again, I would rather have spent those few weeks as your girlfriend last term than to still be 'Ron's little sister' in your mind.

"I couldn't think what to get you," I say, realising that now is the present and it's your seventeenth birthday today and I don't have a gift for you. You might not think of me as your girlfriend or even your friend anymore, but I cannot just ignore your birthday. Birthdays are magical and special and are my favourite holidays to celebrate.

"You didn't have to get me anything."

I ignore you and your stupid comment. "I didn't know what would be useful. Nothing too big, because you wouldn't be able to take it with you."

You sneak a glance at me. My tone is fairly light which starkly contrasts how dark and sombre my eyes are. I take a step closer towards you.

"So then I thought, I'd like you to have something to remember me by, you know, if you meet some veela when you're off doing whatever you're doing."

Ever the smart ass, you respond cheekily: "I think dating opportunities are going to be pretty thin on the ground, to be honest."

"There's the silver lining I've been looking for," I whisper and then I grab you tightly and kiss you as if today was my last day to live.

You're kissing me back, feeling the same urgency as you hastily speed up the kiss. You gently nip at my lips and then when you deepen it into a French kiss, a thousand reasons why you should never leave pop into my mind. You taste like sunshine. . . the first day of summer. . . winning the House Cup. . . starlight. . . honeysuckle. . . seafoam. . . secrets. . . perfection. . ._Harry_. . . . It's flawless and exquisite and cliché. Fireworks dance beneath my eyelids, and your arms tighten around my waist, holding me against you as if you expect me to let go any second.

Behind us, the door bangs open, and we rapidly jump apart.

"Oh," my brother says pointedly. "Sorry."

Reality comes crashing down upon me and I can no longer be strong for you. I turn away, not wanting you to see me succumb to the tears. "Well, happy birthday anyway, Harry," I manage to choke out.

You follow my brother out of my room, not saying a single word.

.

.

I watch you, Superman, fly away to go do one of the chores on Mum's never-ending list. I hate how the world seems to be conspiring to keep us eternally apart.

I swear, Harry, I'll be with you someday. Until then, I'll be right here on the ground waiting for you when you come back down.

.

.

Fleur's wedding is not as nightmare-ish as I had expected. Gabrielle and I, Fleur's designated bridesmaids, wear golden dresses and float down the aisle behind the bride who is dressed in a simple white dress that seems to emanate a beautiful silvery glow.

As I walk down the aisle, I spot you in your Muggle disguise sitting next to Auntie Muriel. My heart is sympathetic towards you, knowing that Auntie Muriel isn't the type of person to keep her opinions to herself. In a rather loud whisper, I hear her say: "Yes, my tiara sets off the whole thing nicely. But I must say, Ginevra's dress is far too low cut."

I grin at Auntie Muriel's insult, glance around to see if anyone is paying attention to me, and then wink at you before I face forward again.

Maybe you'll find me later and ask for a dance. Then I sigh, knowing you probably will not since Ron undoubtedly gave you a stern talking to after the kiss in my bedroom that he so rudely interrupted.

A girl can wish, though.

.

.

Something large and silver twists its way down through the canopy over the wedding dance floor, falling slowly and gracefully like a shooting star. It shines brightly in the dusky night, out of place among the dim candlelight and glowing lanterns scattered among the trees. The lynx-shaped Patronus lands lightly between Lee Jordan, Fred and George, and me; us and those nearest the Patronus pause in mid-dance as we stare in astonishment at it. Then the Patronus's mouth opens and speaks in the loud, deep, slow voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt:

"_The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming._"

* * *

**Author's Note: Next up is (Hogwarts) Sixth Year. Thank you so much for flying away with me as we go save the magical Harry Potter world. Ya'll deserve a cape.  
**


	7. (Hogwarts) Sixth Year

**Author's Note: Just trying to fill in a gap.**

* * *

**(Hogwarts) **_**Sixth Year**_

The train ride to Hogwarts is a depressing event. Few wizarding families have taken the risk to send their child to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry now that the great Headmaster and protector Albus Dumbledore is dead. The number of Muggleborn students attending this year is nearly non-existent. Only the Slytherin House seems to be unaffected by the Dark Lord's return; Slytherin is filled to the brink of wide-eyed First Years and returning Pureblood witches and wizards crowding its dorms.

Gryffindor, however, in all its scarlet-and-gold splendour, is looking worse-for-the-wear. Smiles are scarcely scattered about. As much as we are praised for our pride and courage, all of that Gryffindor grandeur quickly dwindles as rumours increase about Death Eaters posing as professors.

I slide into the train compartment that is seating Luna and Dean and Neville. "Wotcher," I say to them.

Luna wiggles her fingers dreamily at me in greeting, her usual smile absent but very much present in her pensive eyes. Dean, still sore about our break-up from last term, stiffly nods his head before favouring his gaze upon the dizzying landscape nearly indistinguishable through the train window. Internally, I sigh. Obviously, he is still not over me. I don't understand why; I'm not that great of a person. Neville gives me the warmest welcome out of the three of them: he actually says _hello_.

"So how was your summer?" I ask them.

"Terrible; not that you care," Dean tells me curtly.

I share an incredulous look with Neville at Dean's rude temper. "Er, actually I _do_ care, hence the question," I reply, unable to control the amount of sass that somehow manages to colour my words.

As expected, I do not receive a response from my ex-boyfriend.

Luna, thankfully, interrupts the awkward moment. "I just had the _loveliest_ time. Daddy let me paint my ceiling if I helped to find the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks that are living nearby our house." Here, her luminescent face dims as she frowns. "I never did find them, although the Nargles were rampant this summer. . ."

"Gram was considerably nicer to me," Neville interjects before the silence after Luna's comment becomes uncomfortable. "She told me my memory was improving."

I look closely at Neville and shake my head at him and his ingenuousness. "Among other things," I say a tad bit cryptically. Over the summer, Neville has grown like a weed. He's been the type to look short but at second-glance prove to actually be tall. Now, it is undeniable that he is big and bulky. His dark hair actually seems to be cooperating with him for once, and he's lost the air of cluelessness that used to follow him around like a stray, wandering puppy. The grim confidence that now lights his eyes is startling but perfectly suits Neville. I reach over teasingly and touch his biceps. "Wow, Nev, did you work out this summer or something?"

He laughs but there's a note of seriousness clouding his face. "Got to be prepared for the Death Eaters and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, you know?"

"Oh," I say as the impending gravity of the situation overcomes the train compartment again, the moment of levity lost for now. Then I furrow my brow. "Didn't you used to call him 'Vol-"

Immediately I am shushed when Dean furtively glances around and slaps a hand over my mouth. I resist the urge to take a bite out of his fingers – it's not polite to violate someone's mouth with a hand when the person isn't expecting it. "Don't say the V-word!" he hisses, glaring at me as if I was about to utter something taboo.

Perplexedly, I question: "What does anything sex-related have to do with You-Know-Who's name?" I can think of a lot of sex-related words that start with V but I am pretty sure I do not want to use them in the same sentence as You-Know-Who.

"Nothing," Luna sighs out. Great, even she sounds slightly exasperated with my naïvety. It's not my fault that all my brothers have corrupted my once pure and innocent mind. "You just cannot say the Dark Lord's name anymore. It's a Taboo and allows any Death Eater to track your whereabouts. The Blibbering Humdinger told me this," she adds as an afterthought.

"I'm sure it did," I say slowly, looking to Neville for confirmation of what Luna had informed me of. When he nods his head affirmatively, I ask: "But why? They're already our professors at Hogwarts. They can easily stalk us there."

Dean shakes his head, a sincere pitying look on his face. "It doesn't only apply to Hogwarts students, Ginny. _Anybody_ who uses the Dark Lord's name can be traced. Even your superhero, flying, magical boyfriend," he finishes with a sneer.

I stare at my friends, my mouth opening wide into the shape of an 'O' when I realise what exactly is going on. Oh, hippogriff shit, Harry. He'll be able to find you in no time what with your constant flippant usage of You-Know-Who's name. I ardently pray to Merlin that somehow you'll find out about the Taboo before it is too late and you unknowingly deliver yourself into You-Know-Who's waiting arms.

.

.

Hogwarts is so corrupted. The rumours about Death Eaters being professors are completely true. What's worse is that the new Headmaster is none other than Professor Snape. School is now like being stuck in a lesson of Potions that never ends. He's conducting Hogwarts the same as he would in the classroom – he demands silence, compliance with whatever he dictates in that monotone voice of his, and no laughing or smiling. And, of course, the Slytherin Snakes are at the top of the food chain.

I think everybody knows that lions, eagles, and badgers eat snakes. Honestly. (Although, I'm not so sure about badgers.)

The Carrow twins teach Defence Against the Dark Arts except they have adapted it to become just 'the Dark Arts'. Unforgivable Curses are the norm in that class, and they advocate torture and use of the Cruciatus Curse whenever possible. A typical class with them as professors goes like so:

"You're tardy by .00000000001 of a second? _Crucio_."

"Answered the question wrong? _Crucio_."

"Did you just laugh when I said to be silent? _Crucio_."

"I saw you roll your eyes. _Crucio_."

"You blinked. _Crucio_."

"Touch your tongue to your elbow. What do you mean you can't? _Crucio_."

"Your name is Neville Longbottom? _Crucio._"

"That Slytherin told us you were copying his homework. We know Draco would never lie. _Crucio_ you filthy blood traitor."

And it's only the third week of term. I hope the saying 'it gets worse before it gets better' is applicable to this school year. I doubt Hogwarts could ever get shoddier than this.

.

.

One night, when the nights are getting longer and the shadows are growing darker, Neville gets the bright idea to start up Dumbledore's Army again to rally all of us fighters together so we can start rebelling against the Death Eaters who are torturing us for no good reason. Immediately, all of the original D.A. members who are still attending Hogwarts agree to the plan. We decide on the Room of Requirement as our base camp (no Death Eater will ever find us in there) where we can mend those who have been subjected to any of the Unforgivables or whose spirits are broken or basically to give a home to those who want to help fight against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Neville, who's become bloody brilliant at Charms these days, bewitches a few coins with the same spell that Hermione used back in my Fourth Year to summon us for the original D.A. meetings. Although it's Professor Dumbledore whom we are named after, it is you that we are fighting for.

.

.

Fred and George are prospering over at their shop in Hogsmeade – I know this because there is a catastrophically large number of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes products that are being used at Hogwarts these days. Puking Pastilles are so mainstream and old-school to skive out of a Carrow Dark Arts lesson; the newest item my brothers have come up with is a Ruddy Rudolph (courtesy of the fast-approaching winter holidays) which gives the victim a red nose like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. The product is a hybrid of a Nose-bleed Nougat and a No-Noise Voice which ensures that the consumer of a Ruddy Rudolph not only gets a scarlet-looking nose (not contagious), nosebleed (not contagious but messy), and loses their voice (which is, strangely, contagious according to the warning on the exterior of the packaging).

Luna tipped me off that Potions is being taken over by Professor Snape again. I think I just might have to take a Ruddy Rudolph, visit Madam Pomfrey for the hour (poor woman never gets any time off what with all the Unforgivable cursing done in Dark Arts and the sheer amount of students becoming voluntarily ill from Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes products), and then go hang out in the Room of Requirement for the rest of the day. Without you, Ron, and Hermione here anymore, _someone_ has to be the rebel of the castle.

.

.

"I'm bored."

I look up from the Quidditch magazine I am browsing through. The Room of Requirement is empty save for me, Luna, and Neville. Those two words had been spoken by a female and not in my voice.

"You're . . . bored?" Neville says slowly, looking incredulously at our friend. She nods, silvery-blonde hair swinging gently about her face as if there is a midnight breeze swishing through that moon-beam coloured hair of hers.

I am quite surprised by Luna's declaration as well. "Isn't there a Nargle that needs to be found or a Blibbering-Bumbling Humdinger or whatever you call them?"

Luna shakes her head. "They're hibernating."

"Oh," I say. "Silly me for forgetting about that."

Neville stands up from his sitting position on the floor. "I have an idea."

"Yeah?" I question and set my magazine down as I lean in to hear him.

"Yeah?" Luna echoes, her voice returning to its original floaty and dreamy lilt.

"Do you know what Harry's doing?" Neville asks.

I shrug, not understanding what Neville is trying to get at. "We, er, didn't really talk about that over the summer. And he said it was top-secret – something only Ron, Hermione, and Professor Dumbledore were allowed to know."

"Are we Dumbledore's Army or not?" Neville demands.

"Not," Luna replies languorously.

Neville's and my head simultaneously whip to stare in her direction. She giggles and says, "Of course we are, silly. Why would you even offer the option of 'not' if you didn't want it to be picked?"

"It was a rhetorical question," I explain.

"Mm," she hums back. "Did you know the Raffie-girs travel in packs of eighteen?"

"No, I didn't," Neville answers patiently. Out of me and him, Neville is the most patient and tolerant with Luna's random outbursts. "But think, Gin, what's in Professor Dumbledore's office that could be of use to Harry?"

I furrow my brow and think hard. "The Sorting Hat. . .?" I think aloud. "No, that can't be it. Lemon drops? No, they're tasty but not very useful. What about. . . ." My eyes widen as my brain stumbles across one thing that sounds impossible but really, if one thinks about it, is entirely reasonable. "Are you proposing that we steal the Sword of Gryffindor right under Snape's greasy, hooked nose?"

Neville's answering smirk and Luna's gleam of excitement in her eyes is all I need to clarify that yes, we _are_ going to be breaking into the Headmaster's office and filch the sword of Godric Gryffindor from Snape.

.

.

I have no idea how the twins managed to make sneaking around look so easy. Luna took as much as a single lungful of air from the Headmaster's office and then Snape was there and immediately assigned us detention for the rest of the school year for breaking-and-entering and attempting to steal a Hogwarts Founding House artefact. Luna, Neville, and I think that Snape is up to something because he has never, ever been so lenient with punishments. If one thinks about it, serving detention with Hagrid is more like a blessing in disguise than a harsh verdict. The fact that our detentions are to be carried out in the Forbidden Forest makes it even better – I am grateful towards anything that excuses me from Dark Arts class.

.

.

Over the winter holidays, Mum and I fought over whether I should be allowed to return to Hogwarts for spring term. I obviously won the row since my sorry ass is currently sitting in a half-empty train that is bound for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Neville finds me and joins me in my train compartment. We wait forever and ever for Luna to show up, and it is only until we are three-quarters of the way to Hogwarts do we resign ourselves to the fact that she isn't going to come sit in our compartment.

It's only until four days have passed with no sign of Luna do we realise that she isn't going to show up at all for spring term. I'm starting to wonder whether if Mum was right or not to want me to stay home this spring. Hogwarts just doesn't seem worth the effort and trouble anymore – not with Death Eaters running the place.


	8. (the War) Sixth Year

**Author's Note: _Deathly Hallows _stuff quoted. You-Know-Who owns that.**

**Thanks for the hate reviews. I like the reviews that leave me love a little bit better, though.**

* * *

**_(the War) Sixth Year_**

Rumour has it that there is a new radio station named _Potterwatch _which broadcasts any sort of information pertaining to helping the Light side. We all tried to tune the radio to it in the Gryffindor Common Room last night but none of us had the access password. What we did hear was the voice of Lee Jordan, a former Gryffindor and Fred and George's bestie, as well as Lupin's commentary.

The new Dumbledore's Army is huddled around the main radio in the Room of Requirement. Neville managed to guess the password tonight: _Albus_.

". . . pleased to tell you that two of our regular contributors have joined me here this evening. Evening, boys!" Lee says, his voice crackling with static.

"Hi."

"Evening, River."

"Who?" Michael Corner asks.

"'River' is Lee Jordan," Neville explains patiently. "I guess they use codenames to protect confidentiality. But shh, we're missing some important news."

Everyone obeys Neville's command and we all wait with bated breath for Lee's next words.

". . . it is with great regret that we inform our listeners of the murders of Ted Tonks and Dirk Cresswell. A goblin by the name of Gornuk was also killed. It is believed that Muggle-born Dean Thomas and a second goblin, both believed to have been travelling with Tonks, Cresswell, and Gornuk, may have escaped."

There is a muffled outcry of shock and grief that arises from Dumbledore's Army. Mr Tonks was well-known to us from those who have ties with the Order of the Phoenix, and Dean is a Gryffindor whose missing presence at Hogwarts has stuck out like a sore thumb. Neville and I exchange worried glances, both of us wondering how Tonks and Andromeda are faring.

". . . the remains of Bathilda Bagshot have been discovered in Godric's Hollow. The evidence is that she died several months ago. The Order of the Phoenix informs us that her body showed unmistakable signs of injuries inflicted by Dark Magic.

"Listeners, I'd like to invite you now to join us in a minute's silence in memory of Ted Tonks, Dirk Cresswell, Bathilda Bagshot, Gornuk, and the unnamed, but no less regretted, Muggles murdered by the Death Eaters."

Silence echoes around the Room of Requirement, and everybody's heads are bowed as we each remember the people who now walk among the world of the spirits. Tissues and sniffles are passed around as well as tears of loss.

"Thank you," Lee's voice murmurs.

He then proceeds to introduce 'Royal' who is undoubtedly Kingsley Shacklebolt if the slow, deep voice is any indication of its owner. Kingsley informs all of us listening of the Muggle relations and their relative ignorance to the catastrophes currently happening in the Wizarding world. After Kingsley, Lupin comes onto the air and says a few sincere words regarding you and his belief that you are alive (Merlin, I hope you are). Following this, Lupin reports that Xenophilius Lovegood, Luna's father, has been imprisoned due to sketchy publishing's in _The Quibbler_ that do not match up with the Ministry's hush-hush policy. Next, Lupin proclaims Hagrid's almost-arrest from two days ago when he thoughtfully but unwisely hosted a 'Support Harry Potter' party down at his hut.

And then the biggest shock of all came when I heard my brother's jocular voice reverberating through the radio's speakers.

"_'Rodent'_?" Fred exclaims in disgust. "I'm not being 'Rodent', no way, I told you I wanted to be 'Rapier'!"

"Is that your brother?" Seamus Finnegan asks me in surprise.

"What's Fred doing on there?" Michael says.

I open my mouth to answer them but Neville speaks before I can. "Shh, guys, we'll figure it all out later. Would you mind being quiet right now so we don't miss anything?"

Seamus and Michael mumble their apologies to Neville. I nod in agreement with Neville's statement and smile proudly at my friend. He has certainly grown up a lot these past few years at Hogwarts. Gone is the shy guy afraid of Professor – I mean, Headmaster – Snape. (Actually, Neville isn't at all afraid of _Headmaster _Snape.) Leadership suits Neville quite well.

"As our listeners will know, unless they've taken refuge at the bottom of a garden pond or somewhere similar, You-Know-Who's strategy of remaining in the shadows is creating a nice little climate of panic. Mind you, if all the alleged sightings of him are genuine, we must have a good nineteen You-Know-Whos running around the place," Fred remarks with his typical amount of snark.

"Which suits him, of course," says Kingsley. "The air of mystery is creating more terror than actually showing himself."

"Agreed," Fred says. "So, people, let's try and calm down a bit. Things are bad enough without inventing stuff as well. For instance, this new idea that You-Know-Who can kill with a single glance from his eyes. That's a _basilisk_, listeners. One simple test: Check whether the thing that's glaring at you has got legs. If it has, it's safe to look into its eyes, although if it really is You-Know-Who, that's still likely to be the last thing you ever do."

"And the rumours that he keeps being sighted abroad?" asks Lee.

"Well, who wouldn't want a nice little holiday after all the hard work he's been putting in?" Fred says. "Point is, people, don't get lulled into a false sense of security, thinking he's out of the country. Maybe he is, maybe he isn't, but the fact remains he can move faster than Severus Snape confronted with shampoo–" There were a few big laughs resounding around the room from this comment, " –when he wants to, so don't count on him being a long way away if you're planning on taking any risks. I never thought I'd hear myself say it, but safety first!"

I smile ruefully along with a couple others. Even without actually being here, my brother managed to alleviate the tension that clouded our minds due to the inevitable Wizarding war that was bound to come crashing down upon everyone one of these days. I am so lost in my thoughts about when times were a bit happier, that I almost miss the end of the _Potterwatch_ broadcast.

". . . Keep twiddling those dials: The next password will be 'Mad-Eye'. Keep each other safe: Keep faith. Good night." And then the dial on the radio twirls and the lights behind the tuning panel turn off.

I look around the room at the members of Dumbledore's Army. Everyone still looks tense but there are faint traces of smiles blossoming on our faces. A single session of _Potterwatch_ and our priorities have been reorganised and our strength renewed. Those Death Eaters might be bigger, but we're faster and never scared.

.

.

I was wrong last term. Things at Hogwarts _could_ get worse, and they already have. Dumbledore's Army is reckless with their actions, and although gallant and resilient, Neville has become rash with his little acts of rebellion. He constantly swoops in to save the younger Years from any unnecessary torture the Death Eater professors convict them with. If I didn't know any better, I would have mistaken him for Superman. However, to me, _you_ will always my Superman. Neville obviously learned his heroic tendencies from you.

I try to help him out any way I can to fight against the Death Eaters. But, I feel so useless these days. As much as I try to fight against it, I feel myself shutting down a little more as the days pass by and nothing improves at Hogwarts. Smiles are scarce and spirits are low. My family is being scattered across the globe as we try to elude ourselves from the Pureblood bigots who hate us for being blood traitors. And, I miss you, terribly. I wish you were here to hold me and console me and kiss away my fears and make everything better. But my thoughts and feelings are unimportant in the big pictures, so I suck it up and soldier on without objection.

Mum is determined to keep me home despite the fact that the Easter holidays were over yesterday. I didn't complain about her decision. I hope Dumbledore's Army can survive with just Neville leading them now.

.

.

There's a crash out in the front garden of Great-Aunt Muriel's house. Mum glances at me worriedly from where we are making shepherd's pie in the kitchen. Out of habit, her eyes flit to the clock that depicts where everyone is. (I hadn't even realised until now that Mum had brought along that old clock when we transferred from The Burrow to Aunt Muriel's.) Dad, Percy, and Charlie are at Work; Fred and George are in Hogsmeade (packing up the last of their shop, they say); Ron is Unknown; and Bill is Home. Wait, what? Bill's here at Auntie Muriel's?

Mum wastes no time in flying out the front door – not literally since she's going at a speed a broomstick could never touch – and comes running breathlessly back in with my oldest brother in tow.

"Bill, hi!" I exclaim as I roll out the dough for the pie.

He flashes me a small smile. "Hey, Ginny. Dinner smells good."

"Thanks," I say appreciatively. A flicker of movement catches my eye from behind Bill's shoulder. "Where's Fleur? Is she the person behind you?"

Bill turns to Mum and Dad who have come to stand beside me, revealing the person who had been standing in Bill's shadow. "Actually, I brought Ollivander along. Shell Cottage is getting a bit crowded, and Fleur and I were wondering if you would do us the immense honour of looking over Ollivander until he gets his health and strength back."

"No, no, that will be no problem," Mum says with a wave of her hand. "There's plenty of room here." Auntie Muriel gives a haughty cough at this comment, but Mum ignores her. "Merlin bless you, Mr Ollivander, and give you help and guidance in these dark, troubled times."

"The same goes for you, dear Mrs Weasley," Ollivander croaks gratefully.

Bill nods at the new arrangements. "Alright, then. Thanks, Mum. Dad. Can't stay long, but it was awfully nice to see all of you once more. Take care." He turns to leave Auntie Muriel's house but his hand strays to his pocket and his brow furrows. "Wait a minute." He pulls out a worn velvet case and heads into the parlour to give it to Auntie Muriel. "Here. Fleur wanted to return this to you."

"It's about time," Auntie Muriel snaps. "I thought your new bride had stolen it."

Bill raises an eyebrow but holds his tongue. We've all figured out long ago that it is best to leave Auntie Muriel to think her strong but wrong opinions because there is absolutely no way she'll ever be swayed from her beliefs.

"Best be off to Shell Cottage, now," Bill says to us. He comes around and gives each of us a hug. "Stay safe."

"Tell Fleur I give her my love and best regards!" I call out before he leaves Auntie Muriel's house.

"Will do!" I hear before there is a distinct _pop_ as Bill Apparates off Auntie Muriel's property lines.

From inside the house, Ollivander's voice can be distinctly heard, saying: "Harry Potter, now there is a good man inside and out. The wand chooses the wizard, I like to say, but things change. Soon we enter an era where the world of magic could break or fall, and all due to the choices and changes made by Harry Potter and the Dark Lord. Just think, Mr Potter could be making history right now while he waits for news back at Shell Cottage. . . ."

My mouth falls open. You're at Bill and Fleur's place right now? Why didn't Bill say anything to me about that? What the bloody hell is going on with all of this secrecy and such?

.

.

My fake Galleon glows a burning red and words etch themselves onto its face in Neville's slanted handwriting: _Battle of Hogwarts. It's the fight of our lives and we'll stand as champions tonight. _And that is when I know for sure that shit just got serious.

I notify Mum and the rest of family who is in the Order of Neville's message. Immediately, they all clamour to come and disapprove of my choice to fight too. Apparently being an Underage witch still means shit to them in this moment of crisis. Whatever. I'm still going to Hogwarts to duel and kick some Death Eater ass whether they like it or not.

We Apparate directly into the Hog's Head and use Ariana Dumbledore's portrait and her secret tunnel that leads into the Room of Requirement to get into Hogwarts. The smooth stone steps are exactly as I remember them from fall term when Aberforth would sneak us some food and drinks when times were a wee bit tough and none of us were well enough to visit the Hogwarts Kitchens after a particularly brutal round of being inflicted with the Cruciatus Curse. Brass lamps cast a yellow glow around the passageway, and the dirt floor shows fresh footprints – someone must've recently used this route.

In the corridor, my family and I come across Dean and Luna. My old boyfriend, Luna, and I share a look and suddenly we are running to the other side of the passage, knowing that time is precious and that we cannot afford to lose a single moment when the Battle of Hogwarts is finally about to happen.

Dean and Luna exit the tunnel first, and then I follow them into the bright, dazzling light of the Room of Requirement. There's a considerable amount of people gathered here tonight, all crowded around you. The Room looks the same and yet different: there are still multi-coloured hammocks representing the Houses – minus Slytherin – hung from the walls. Bookcases and broomsticks also line the stone walls.

You meet my eye and I give you the biggest smile possible. For once, the grey clouds of doubt that have been darkening my mind vanish into a sea of blue skies and sunshine.

But then, your eyes dart behind me and I turn to see what has caught your attention. From the tunnel spills out Fred, George, Lee Jordan, and of all people, Cho Chang. Immediately, the old stem of jealousy bubbles up inside of me as I see you divert your attention away from and towards her.

"I got the message," Cho tells you unnecessarily as she holds up her fake Galleon for your perusal. She goes over to sit by Michael Corner and looks at you expectantly. Hmph. Hopefully she and Michael are still dating and so maybe she won't sink those raven claws of her into you and try to steal you away from me again.

"So what's the plan, Harry?" George asks.

"There isn't one," you respond a bit dazedly as you take in the crowd of people who are all watching you attentively.

"Just going to make it up as we go along, are we? My favourite kind," says Fred.

Then suddenly you let out an outburst where you try to play the hero and save our lives from this danger, but don't you get it, Harry? We _voluntarily_ came to help you. We're not here by fate, or destiny, or a horse, or whatever you want to call it. We're here because we are Dumbledore's Army and we are going to fight and help you whether you like it or not. We don't _want _to be saved by you, Superman. Maybe we want to be the superheroes too and not be helpless bystanders.

"There's something we need to find," you tell us. "Something – something that'll help us overthrow You-Know-Who. It's here at Hogwarts, but we don't know where. It might have belonged to Ravenclaw. Has anyone heard of an object like that? Has anyone ever come across something with her eagle on it, for instance?" You look at Padma, Michael, Terry, and Cho in answer, but it is Luna who responds from her perch on the armrest of the chair I am currently sitting in.

"Well, there's her lost diadem," she says and then rambles on with some other irrelevant information in typical Luna-fashion.

"Yeah, but the lost diadem," Michael says while rolling his eyes, "is _lost_, Luna. That's sort of the point."

Then you and Ron and Terry and Cho and Luna all start talking and discussing at once and I sort of lose track of the conversation as I shoot mental daggers in Cho's direction. Don't think for a single minute that I have not seen her bat her eyelashes at you or flip her hair one too many times or giggle breathlessly at your words. No wonder she's in Ravenclaw with a birdbrain like that.

"If you'd like to see what the diadem's supposed to look like, I could take you up to our common room and show you, Harry? Ravenclaw's wearing it in her statue," Cho offers while twirling her hair on her index finger.

You nod slowly and Cho gets to her feet. I cannot _stand_ the idea of you two alone under your Invisibility Cloak and in the dark, so I quickly interject: "No, Luna will take Harry, won't you, Luna?"

"Oooh, yes, I'd like to," Luna says happily and gets up from her spot on the armrest of my chair. You and Luna leave the Room of Requirement after putting on your Cloak. Once you have gone out of everyone's sight, Cho glares at me and sits down with a look of displeasure on her face.

Serves her right, that little conniving, boyfriend-stealer Ravenclaw bitch. This could very well possibly be my last day seeing you alive and I am not letting her sabotage it by nicking you away from me.

.

.

You come back to the Room, looking quite shocked at the fair amount of people that has turned up in your absence. Kingsley, Lupin, Oliver Wood, Katie Bell, Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet, Bill and Fleur, and Mum and Dad have joined the D.A. while you were off looking for the lost diadem with Luna.

"Voldemort's on his way, they're barricading the school – Snape's run for it – What are you doing here? How did you know?" you stammer out your question to us, your sentences running together in your confusion.

"We sent messages to the rest of D.A.," Fred tells you. "You couldn't expect everyone to miss the fun, Harry, and the D.A. let the Order of the Phoenix know, and it all kind of snowballed."

"What first, Harry?" asks George. "What's going on?"

"They're evacuating the younger kids and everyone's meeting in teh Great Hall to get organised," you say. "We're fighting."

There is a chorus of "Hell, yeah!" and suddenly everyone is stampeding out of the Room to go help the Professors lockdown Hogwarts and Side-Along-Apparate the Underaged students off the castle grounds. After a few chaotic moments, the crowd lessens until it is just me, Mum, Lupin, Fred, George, Bill, Fleur, and you remaining in the Room.

"You're underage!" Mum screams at me as you approach us. "I won't permit it! The boys, yes,but you, you've got to go home!" She grabs me tight and makes to march me over to Ariana Dumbledore's portrait.

"I won't!" I yell back as I yank myself out of Mum's grasp. I whirl on her with flashing eyes and shout: "I'm in Dumbledore's Army –"

"A teenagers' gang!"

"A teenagers' gang that's about to take him on, which no one else has dared to do!" Fred interjects on my behalf.

"She's sixteen!" Mum cries. "She's not old enough! What you two were thinking, bringing her with you –"

The twins hang their heads in shame in guilt. My temper sparks with fury that Mum has managed to convince the biggest troublemakers on the face of Earth that they were in the wrong for 'bringing' me along with them – as if I would have obliged with the idea of staying home and twiddling my thumbs while the everyone else is off to go fight the Dark side in the battle of our lives.

"Mum's right, Ginny," Bill gently declares. "You can't do this. Everyone underage will have to leave, it's only right."

"I can't go home!" I yell with angry tears sparkling in my eyes. "My whole family's here, I can't stand waiting there alone and not knowing and –" I look you in the eyes for the first time all night. I silently plead with you to understand my point and take my side and back me up and _save_ me, Superman, from my family's disapproval, but you shake your head in cold dismissal and I turn away sharply in defeat. "Fine," I spit out, staring at Ariana's portrait. "I'll say good-bye now, then, and –"

I am interrupted by a loud clanging and banging around when out of the tunnel tumbles Percy. "Am I too late?" my previously shunned brother asks.

There is an awkward pause as my family does not know how to take Percy's appearance and willingness to help. Lupin and Fleur try to break the tension by showing pictures of baby Teddy but they shut up when Percy and us other Weasleys take the mickey out of him and then reconcile on friendlier terms with him once we have learned that he's deserted the Ministry of Magic. I use Percy's interruption as a distraction to sneak out of the Room and go help prepare the castle for the battle.

"Ginny!" Mum snaps, freezing me in place.

I then hear Lupin say: "Molly, how about this – why doesn't Ginny stay here, then at least she'll be on the scene and know what's going on, but she won't be in the middle of the fighting?"

"I –" I interject, in an attempt to argue with Lupin's idea.

"That's a good idea," Dad says firmly. "Ginny, you stay in this room, you hear me?"

I scowl, not at all liking this new plan, but Dad is uncharacteristically firm in his opinion and I have no choice but to sulk and nod my head.

"Good girl," Dad approves and then leaves the Room with Mum and Lupin.

I pout at the sudden turn of events. I'll find a loophole in my agreement with Dad somehow – like hell am I going to stay confined to this Room when the Light side needs all the help they can get to defeat the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters.

.

.

"I know you are preparing to fight."

I jump at the sudden voice emanating and reverberating from the walls of Hogwarts. I had been sitting idly in the Room of Requirement, practising my wandwork and Stunning Spells when all of the sudden You-Know-Who's high, cold, and clear voice echoed throughout the Room.

"Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood."

_Lies_, I think bitterly. _You are the biggest fucking liar I have ever heard_. Hatred for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named courses through my veins as I recall the lies he told and promised me during my First Year when I poured my heart and soul into Tom Riddle's diary.

"Give me Harry Potter and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded.

"You have until midnight."

.

.

Five minutes until midnight and you, Ron, and Hermione come bursting breathless into the Room of Requirement where Neville's grandmum, Tonks, and I are practising Disarming Spells.

"Is everyone okay?" Tonks and I ask in unison.

"As far as we know," you tell us. "Are there still people in the passage to the Hog's Head?"

I give you a confused look, but it is Neville's grandmum who verbally answers you. "I was the last to come through, she says. "I sealed it, I think it unwise to leave it open now Aberforth has left his pub. Have you seen my grandson?"

"He's fighting," you say.

"Naturally," Mrs Longbottom smirks. "Excuse me, I must go and assist him." And then she leaves the Room at a surprisingly brisk walk for someone as old as she is.

You switch your gaze over to Tonks. "I thought you were supposed to be with Teddy at your mother's?"

Tonks responds anxiously: "I couldn't stand not knowing. . . . She'll look after him – have you seen Remus?"

"He was planning to lead a group of fighters into the grounds –"

Before you finish your sentence, Tonks leaves in search of her husband.

"Ginny," you say. "I'm sorry, but we need you to leave too. Just for a bit. Then you can come back in."

My face lights up at the prospect of getting out of the Room. Perhaps I can sneak away and join the fighting before Mum finds out.

"And then you can come back in!" I hear you shout after me as I run to follow Tonks' footsteps. "_You've got to come back in!_"

I don't think so, Superman. I've got to use all of those spells you taught during the D.A. meetings at some point in my life, and I think this battle at Hogwarts is an opportunity of a lifetime.

.

.

All of the sudden the world resounds with a _bang_ and then in comes a cataract of Death Earters that flood the Hogwarts corridors and curse anything and everything in their sight. Unforgivables fly out of their wand tips repeatedly and nothing is safe anymore. The air crackles with magic. People are running around, duelling in the corridors and trying to save lives. I spy my brothers' trademark red Weasley hair from across the castle on a different floor and I rush onto a staircase to meet up with them. However, the staircase moves and changes directions precisely at the moment I see a Death Eater blast the corridor nearest to my family. I duck down to avoid the onslaught of wreckage but I then learn that someone else was not so lucky. Through the dust and rubble, I hear the soul-ripping howls of anguish coming from the mouth of Percy:

"No – no – no!" he shouts in disbelief. "No! Fred! No!"

.

.

There's a girl out on the castle grounds whispering for her mummy. She's terrified and clearly underage. No one stops to comfort her during this break that Voldemort has given us to recoop. I head in her direction and wrap my arms gently around her small, frightened body.

"It's all right," I tell her. "It's okay. We're going to get you inside." I know I am lying through my teeth at the moment because everything is most certainly not fine but I do not want to scare the poor girl even more than she already is.

"But I want to go _home_," she whispers to me. "I don't want to fight anymore!"

"I know," I say, my voice breaking a little. "It's going to be all right."

I knelt beside her trembling body and held her hand, mindful of her many injuries and contusions. Together, we walk back to the Great Hall where medi-witches are treating the injured. As we walk, however, I feel the air move even though there is no breeze. It's almost as if someone is walking by but the girl and I are the only people out here at the moment.

I do not say anything, but even so, I know you're there, Superman. You may be invisible but then again, I've always been able to see right through you.

.

.

Professor McGonagall screams awfully: "NO!" before rushing out of the main door of Hogwarts. Perplexed, the survivors who are battle-weary but still able to fight follow her.

"No!"

"_No!_"

"Harry! HARRY!"

Ron's, Hermione's, and my voices rise together in the most dreadful symphony of sounds. Grief and despair cling to our voices because there, in Hagrid's arms, you are laying dead with closed eyes and your glasses askew. You are a deathly pale shade and you do not seem to be breathing at all. Has Voldemort finally managed to succeed in killing you after all these years? The crowd of survivors suddenly becomes rowdy and raises their voices and start yelling and jeering once they catch sight of the Death Eaters and Voldemort and you.

"SILENCE!" cries Voldemort and waves his wand to force silence upon all of us. "It is over! Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet where he belongs!" Hagrid has no choice but to obey, and he does so, with big basketball-sized tears running down his face. "You see?" Voldemort proclaims. "Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!"

Ron bravely interrupts Voldemort and rallies the spirits of the Light side. Voldemort then quells the crowd and spews some hippogriff shit concerning your death which is completely unbelievable because everyone knows you are not the coward Voldemort is making you out to be. The crowd surges again and then Neville is the one defying Voldemort this time. In a ghastly example of Voldemort's cruelty, the Death Eaters force a blazing Sorting Hat upon Neville's head in punishment for Neville's loyalty to you and what you stood for. But then come the giants and their distraction is enough for Neville to break the Body-Bind Curse Voldemort had placed on him. A moment of confusion takes place what with the giants attacking, centaurs stampeding, the Death Eaters running away, and Neville slicing the head off of Nagini with the Sword of Gryffindor.

Through at all, though, Voldemort's fury is felt by everyone when he creates an earthquake with his roar of hatred towards us and his anguish about the death of his beloved snake.

The onslaught of new attackers forces the defenders of Hogwarts and Death Eaters back into the castle. Jinxes, curses, and spells are cast every which way, hurting and injuring people without anyone knowing who they hit or what hit them. Hermione and Luna grab my hands and yank me away as we catch sight of Bellatrix's stormy mass of ringlets that make her look like she has been recently electrocuted. Together, all three of us duel her. Out of the corner of my eye, I realise that Voldemort is some fifty yards away from us, but I cannot jinx him without risking my life against Bellatrix because even though Hermione, Luna, and I are battling our outmost hardest, Bellatrix's skill is equal if not slightly superior to ours. A sudden flash of green light – the Killing Curse, no doubt, but I had not been able to identify the spell at the time – flashes past my face, missing me by an inch. Suddenly, I am knocked out of the way by my own mother who is screaming:

"NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!" Mum throws her cloak off and then pushes Hermione, Luna, and I away so she can take on Bellatrix herself. Mum's wand twirls and slashes viciously – she is completely serious about this duel between herself and Voldemort's deputy. Jets of light fly from both wands and anything in their vicinity is liable to being cursed or broken.

"No!" Mum yells as a few students run forward to help her. "Get back! _Get back_! She is mine!"

"What will happen to your children when I've killed you?" taunts Bellatrix with a delighted smirk. "When Mummy's gone the same way as Freddie?"

"You – will –never – touch- our – children – again!" Mum screams at her and purely by luck or chance the curse Mum uses at the same time she screeches at Bellatrix hits the Death Eater in her chest, directly over her heart.

Before anyone can cheer, Voldemort's fury has reached catastrophic heights from the deaths of his most loyal supporter and his snake, causing a massive rumble and cracking in the castle's foundation. You choose that moment to appear, proving to everyone that you are most definitely alive, and protect everyone from Voldemort's wrath by diverting his attention to you.

"I don't want anyone else to try to help," you say in a voice that projects throughout the hall. "It's got to be like this. It's got to be me."

You and Voldemort go at each other verbally, taunting and trying to find each other's weaknesses as you relay all your findings and the Horcrux hunting you've been doing for the past few months to prepare for this moment. You reveal Voldemort's past and the crucial things that Dumbledore has passed down to you to culminate in this and give you the advantage of victory. The two of you circle each other and then, in words that have been burned in my mind since the moment they were spoken, he and you utter at the same time:

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

"_Expelliarmus_!"

With a thunderous bang, Voldemort's wand comes flying at you and the Killing Curse he has uttered is rebounded, killing the one who had spoken it. You've caught his wand in your hand and are looking at the empty shell of your enemy with something like a bit of momentary regret in your eyes.

But then there is silence which is quickly broken as everyone processes your victory and the death of the Dark Lord. We all come rushing towards you, praising you, Superman, and the fact that you have publicly saved the day. You are the Wizarding world's official hero.


	9. (Fall Term) Seventh Year

**(Fall Term) _Seventh Year_**

Everything has changed. The Second Wizarding War has definitely left its mark upon these hallowed halls. Hogwarts has been rebuilt and restored to its former glory over the summer. The familiar stone walls aren't as dingy and grey as I remember but they are as safe as ever and feel like home. Thank Merlin the Quidditch Pitch wasn't impacted at all during the War. It was torture last year to not be able to play Quidditch during Snape's reign as Headmaster.

Professor McGonagall is actually the Headmistress now. She is as stern and pragmatic as ever but there is no doubt that she will amount to be as great of a leader Professor Dumbledore was. She still conducts the Sorting, and currently she is calling forth this year's First Years to line up and place the Sorting Hat upon their anxious and trembling heads. There is a smaller group of First Years since some parents (cough, Slytherin) question the security of Hogwarts at the moment. The cluster that is present, though, looks like they will be a fairly decent group.

"Cygnet, Isabella!" Headmistress McGonagall calls out.

A small, doe-eyed girl with long wavy mahogany hair steps forward, biting her lip. A boy – who closely resembles the late Cedric Diggory – nudges her arm in quiet support. She gives him a winning smile and then proceeds a bit more confidently over to the Sorting Hat. Before she gets the stool, however, she promptly trips and falls flat on her face. She lies face down on the ground in complete mortification for a few seconds while everyone sitting in the Great Hall looks on in wide-eyed silence. Isabella eventually stands up and then quickly shoves the Sorting Hat upon her head; her face is flushed a bright red.

"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat roars.

Isabella smiles sheepishly, the flames on her face not fading one bit with all the attention of everybody's eyes trained on her as we all wait with bated breath to see if she'll trip and fall on her way over to Gryffindor table. When she approaches our table unscathed, we all applaud.

"Welcome!" Dean greets her. "It's nice to meet you, Isabella."

"Bella," she corrects him shyly.

Hermione scoots over on my left and makes room for Bella on the bench. "Hi, Bella. Where are you from?"

Bella sits down between Hermione and me but her eyes are trained on the Sorting of her friend whose name has just been called.

"Diggory, Edward!"

The Hat takes no time at all to proclaim his House. "HUFFLEPUFF!" the Hat yells and sends Cedric Diggory's little brother to Cedric's alumni House. The Hufflepuffs go wild with happiness to have Cedric's sibling amongst their midst.

The boy, Edward, dips his head in acknowledgement to his new House but comes bounding over to Gryffindor table. He stops and whispers to Bella apologetically. She waves him off with a smile of congratulations although her eyes are sad. Edward retreats while running his hand through his bronze hair in an unsure fashion, but then grins crookedly and turns to meet his new House.

"We can still be friends, right?" Bella asks in a murmur, her eyes never leaving her friend's profile.

I hesitate, uncertain if she is asking a rhetorical question. "Of course you can still be friends," I reply when she turns and looks at me with those large brown eyes.

"Good," Bella says. "Edward's my Batman, you know. It's not because of his vampire heritage – he's only one-eighteenth part vampire."

"Oh?" I say interestedly as Headmistress McGonagall conducts the rest of the Sorting.

Bella smiles over at her friend who has looked over at the Gryffindor table and sought out Bella's gaze with his sea green eyes. "I wonder why he isn't in Gryffindor," she muses, half to herself. "He closely resembles a mountain lion."

I meet Hermione's gaze over the top of Bella's head. We share a knowing smile as we listen to Bella's ramblings. Even though Professor Dumbledore is gone, he has sure left a legacy upon Hogwarts. During the Start-of-Term Feast, Hermione and I witness several displays of inter-house unity and mingling similar to the bond between the young Bella and Edward.

It's a perfect beginning to a life of light after the world of darkness we all experienced during the control of Lord Voldemort.

.

.

"She's a sweetheart, isn't she," Hermione coos to me about Bella while we change into our pyjamas and set up a film to watch tonight in Hermione's Muggle contraption she calls a 'telly'.

All of the Seventh Year Gryffindor girls nod their heads in agreement as we gather in our dorm to watch Hermione's telly that is showing some film named _Twilight_. Apparently it is some big commodity in the Muggle world. It looks like a load of bullshit to me. Muggles have a different, fantasised concept concerning vampires that is completely irrelevant to the vampires that exist in the magical world.

"Bella's kind of shy but sweet," comments Leah Lupin, Professor Lupin's niece who had transferred over from Beauxbatons for this school year.

"Very open-hearted and accepting," Emily Black states. She is a Pureblood Black outcast like Sirius ever since she was Sorted into Gryffindor instead of Slytherin. "And supermodel pretty."

"She should be!" Lavender Brown squeals. Her marred face, courtesy of Fenrir Greyback during the Battle of Hogwarts, twists in jealousy as she says: "Her skin is flawless!"

Technically Lavender was supposed to graduate last year, but she decided to come back to Hogwarts and repeat her Seventh Year along with those few who dropped out last year during the War (like you, Hermione, and Ron) and need to finish their studies to graduate from Hogwarts with full credentials. Hermione, Lavender, Hannah Abbott, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Seamus Finnigan, Malfoy, Theodore Nott, Dean Thomas, and Anthony Goldstein are all people in your year that returned to Hogwarts and melded into the Seventh Year class that includes me and Luna. You and Ron were offered Auror positions after your achievements during the War. You two accepted the job offers and did not return to Hogwarts like Hermione did. Your reasoning was that Hogwarts prepares students for jobs, and since you already had a job, you did not need Hogwarts anymore. Since when did you become too cool for school, Mr Potter?

"She told me she's of Italian descent," I inform the Seventh Years as we watch the vampire on-screen bounce an apple off his shoe and give it to the awkward new girl who has a habit of rolling her eyes every ten seconds. Nothing about this film is interesting. I have absolutely no idea what that damn bouncing apple has to do with anything about the plot in the film.

"'Bella' means '_beautiful_' in Italian," Hermione translates.

Lavender sighs wistfully. "Lucky bitch."

Leah laughs. "Are you honestly jealous of a First Year?"

"Beautiful people hang out with beautiful people," Lavender whines. "Of course I'm jealous. She snagged Edward Diggory!"

"Who's also a First Year," Emily snorts.

"Girl, he's _hawt_."

"And he's eleven years old. Way too young and innocent to be corrupted by your filthy mind, you cougar," Leah smirks.

Lavender sticks her tongue out at Leah and throws a pillow at her. Lavender, who was never on the Quidditch team and has poor hand-eye coordination, misses Leah and the pillow bounces off of Hermione's hair.

"Hey!" Hermione exclaims, and suddenly the film is forgotten as we indulge ourselves in a juvenile game of pillow fighting on our first night back at Hogwarts.

.

.

On October 31st, your new owl that Hagrid gave to you after the War, Safari, came soaring into the Great Hall during breakfast. Her tawny gold appearance creates quite a stir since everyone knows she is associated with you. She isn't properly trained, though, and flies for a few minutes in large, swooping circles overhead as we all look up at her and wonder who she's going to deliver mail to.

"Come back down!" I call to Safari.

She lets out a hoot of acknowledgement at the sound of my voice and plummets down gracefully to my spot at Gryffindor table. Safari graces me with a parcel of paper and a sunflower that you have Charmed to stay fresh. She lets out another throaty hoot before flying up in a dizzying spiral and disappearing back to your flat in Muggle London.

"What'd you get?" Bella asks excitedly. I seem to be the only one who has received mail today (besides the people who paid for _The Daily Prophet_ which no one really wants to read anymore these days after the whole hush-hush policy employed in the War) so everyone's eyes are on me as they all wait for me to read whatever The Golden Boy has written.

I bite my lip as I look over what you have sent. It seems to be a small piece of parchment and the sunflower – that's all. I slowly open the parchment and read your spiky handwriting:

[-]

_Gin-_

_Hey, you. Miss you bunches, love. I want to see you today - would you do the immense honour of accompanying me to my parents' graves this evening? Professor McGonagall deemed you free to come via Side-Along-Apparation as long as you finish all of your studies for the day. Come meet me at Hagrid's hut at sundown._

_Wear something warm. West Country of England has been notably chilly lately._

_Yours, Harry_

_PS: Tell Hermione I said hi. But I want you to remember that all my love is for you and only you, Ginny._

[-]

I draw in a ragged breath after reading what you have written. There is so much emotion in this tiny, little note. I haven't forgotten that today is the anniversary of your parents' death – there is absolutely no way in Merlin that I would refuse to come along and visit your parents' graves when I know you are hurting today. And you are so thoughtful for thinking ahead and clearing my absence with Headmistress McGonagall.

And all of that love, Superman. After the War we never officially declared ourselves in a relationship again but all my doubts have now vanished about our relationship status. Not that I really doubted you, anyways.

I love you, Harry. I always have and always will.

.

.

As soon as I see the light recede from day, I fly out of the castle and hurry my way down to Hagrid's hut. I already see you waiting patiently with your hands in your pockets and I cannot help myself but sprint the last few metres into your waiting arms.

"Harry!" I scream ecstatically. I jump into your arms and wrap my legs around your waist before kissing you soundly on the lips.

"Hey," you smile breathlessly in between kisses. We've snogged for a solid ten minutes with minor breaks for air, but I swear, I am never letting you go. "Oh, _Gin_," you groan in pleasure and kiss me harder and faster.

"I've missed you," I murmur and kiss your jaw where some delicious stubble is growing. "So. Damn. Much." I lick the shell of your ear hungrily and nibble on your earlobe.

"I missed you more," you profess with a contented smile. You are so adorably romantic, and I appreciate the sincere amount of honesty lacing your words. "Drop out of Hogwarts."

I laugh, knowing that you're teasing and being insensible. "Can't. I'm so close to getting a contract with the Holyhead Harpies this Quidditch season."

"Is that what you're going to do with your life? Play Quidditch all the time?" you ask curiously.

"Mm," I shrug because you are thoroughly distracting me with those lips of yours that are currently on my collarbone. "That's the plan so far."

"That is awesome," you proclaim. "I've always wanted to marry a professional Quidditch player."

I laugh again at your silly antics. "Last I checked, it was Ron – not you – who was kissing Krum's ass at the Quidditch World Cup."

You draw your eyebrows together in a serious expression and open your mouth as if to say something but then you close it, obviously changing your mind. "Come on, hop on down so we can Apparate over to Godric's Hollow before it gets too dark. It's Halloween, you know. Who knows what sorts of pranks the youngsters will be setting up in the graveyard at night?"

I shudder. I am never one for pranks after being subjected to so many of them by my impish brothers. "Alright. Let's go."

.

.

"When's your next Quidditch game?" you ask as we crunch softly through the fallen leaves in the graveyard. The sunlight is casting this sort of magical golden filter over the world and is making you look like an angel fallen down from the heavens, what with your ever-present aura of confidence and the pureness of your emotions reflected all over your face. The shadows of the tree branches and leaves cast a silhouette of wing-shaped shadows behind you, adding to the image.

"Tomorrow," I say. I look at you with an arched eyebrow. "Will you come?"

"Of course," you respond and bring up our linked hands to kiss the juncture where our thumbs are overlapping. "Wouldn't miss you kick Slytherin's ass for the world."

I roll my eyes playfully. "That better not be the only reason for you coming to the match."

You lean over and kiss me on the lips sweetly. "No, love. _You're_ the only reason."

My heart flutters at your proclamation. I bite my lip to stop the growing smile on my face, but judging from the smirk gracing yours, I know you can see my smile. You start to slow down your walking pace, though, and soon we have come to a halt in front of the graves of Lily and James Potter.

"Hi Mum, Dad," you say softly. It sounds rather intimate and I do not want to intrude so I start to pull away. Your grip on my wrist tightens, though, and I raise my eyebrows questioningly. "Stay," you mouth to me. I nod my head and hold your hand loosely, offering you moral support while you talk to your parents.

"Thanks for coming for me in my time of need those three times when I fought Riddle: at Godric's Hollow, in the graveyard after the Triwizard Tournament, and in the Forbidden Forest," you say gratefully. "I owe you two my life. Dad, thank you for your reputation and the legacy you have left behind. It's been hell trying to measure up to someone as great as you were and I only wish that you were here to help me fill your shoes. Mum, thank you for sacrificing yourself for me even though Voldemort would have spared you upon Snape's request. He loved you, you know –Snape, that is. I find that really nasty, but hey, Dumbledore's philosophy was rather like the Beatles' "All you need is love" and all that hippie shit, and Snape believed in Dumbledore. Just like I did and you did and Dad did.

"Ginny's here with me," you say, your voice barely audible. "She's beautiful like you, Mum. She has red hair and a fiery temperament. And she's absolutely perfectly imperfect. Dad, how did you know you wanted to spend your whole life when Mum? Was it when she annoyed you senseless but you wanted to kiss her breathless? Was it when she smiled at you and it felt like the world spun just because she was alive and happy? Was it when you envisioned the future with little mini-me Potters running around that called you and her 'Daddy and Mummy'?"

Upon hearing this I gasp in surprise. It feels so wrong to be hearing you utter your utmost private thoughts to your parents, yet your hand is still wrapped up in mine, holding me in place. When you hear my intake in breath, you glance over at me with a peaceful smile on your face and give my hand a gentle, loving squeeze.

"When was the first time you told Mum 'I love you'? Because I truly and honestly love Ginny. I've told her those three words before, but I've also broken her heart countless of times. I want to be able to tell her it and have her believe me that I mean it for forever and always. I want her to trust me and love me and grow old with me.

"Ginny's my best friend. I know that I mention Ron and Hermione to you guys more often than not, but Ginny's the one who has always believed in me. She's the one who thinks I am infallible and can do anything if I put my mind to it. And because of this, I do not feel worthy enough for her. She's just so _perfect_ and I'm me. She is an angel and pure and deserves someone so much better than me. I don't want her to be stuck forever with someone as corrupted as me – I mean, I was part _Voldemort_ for seventeen years of my life!" At this point in time, I think you have forgotten that I am here and can hear you. I nibble at the inside of my cheek and continue listening to you pour your heart and soul out to your parents.

"But at the same time I am so jealous and possessive about her," you murmur, your thumb absent-mindedly stroking the back of my hand. "I can't stand it when another guy tries to take her away from me. I can't handle it when another bloke tries to capture her beauty for himself. I just want her to be mine.

"Dad, she says she wants to become a pro-Quidditch player. I wanted to marry her on the spot when she said that. She's exactly my dream girl and everything I have ever wanted. I only wish that I knew how to be her dream bloke.

"I work at the Ministry now. It's alright; rather dull, if you ask me. Kingsley Shacklebolt is the new Minister. He's absolutely the best you could ever ask for. Save Dumbledore, of course. Ron is an Auror with me. There's nothing dramatic going on in the Wizarding world now that Riddle is dead. However, there is always the danger of his Death Eaters regrouping and threatening the magical world once again. That is the main reason I became an Auror: to protect the ones I loved from hazards such as Riddle and his doppelgangers. I want the world to be perfect for Ginny and our future children." You reach down and place a bouquet and wreath of flowers and candles on their graves. "I love you and miss you every day. Happy Halloween."

Then you squeeze my hand and Apparate us out of the graveyard in Godric's Hallow just as the last drop of golden sunlight falls from the skies into the dark, gaping mouth of the night.


	10. (Spring Term) Seventh Year

**(Spring Term) **_**Seventh Year**_

"FIVE . . . FOUR . . . THREE . . ." everybody present at The Burrow counts down until the New Year.

"Ah, fuck it," I hear George say before he plants a big smacking kiss on Angelina Johnson's lips. "Happy early New Year, Angie."

". . . ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!" everyone else choruses, paying no mind to George's early display of affection. All around you and me, everyone is coupling up and kissing their significant other.

You glance over at me, probably wondering if I am still mad at you. "Happy New Year, Gin," you say hesitantly. Your eyebrows draw together as you consider how badly I will hurt you if you try to kiss me.

I make the decision for you and place a quick kiss on the corner of your mouth and pull away hastily before you have time to react. The kiss is by no means romantic but it lets you know that I am not thinking of breaking up with you. I'm just completely, furiously, and irrationally mad at you – that's all.

You sigh, knowing that there is nothing you can do without making me even madder. Subconsciously, your hand snakes down to intertwine with mine but I yank mine out of your grip.

"Don't touch me," I hiss at you and stare stonily at the impressive display of fireworks George has created in the sky with his and Fred's supply of Weasley Wizarding Wheezes products.

"Ginny, it was an ac –"

I snarl: "Don't you fucking dare tell me that my Pygmy Puff's death was an 'accident'!" I shake my head, thoroughly appalled at your nerve to lie about the circumstances of my beloved pet's death. "We both know quite well that it was _not_ a bloody accident!"

"Literally, yes, I mean there was no blood at all. I should think it was quite painless –"

"ARGGHH!" I scream at you and turn sharply on my heel so I can stomp into the house. I'm not really in a firework-watching-festive-partying-Happy-fucking-N ew-Year-holiday mood; I'm more in a scream-and-yell-because-Harry-James-Potter-is-the- most-insensitve-git-I-have-ever-met mood.

Just last week you and George and the rest of my Quidditch-obsessed family were trying to play out in the back garden like we always do during the holidays. However, some forgetful asshole hadn't thought to place the Quaffle back in its proper spot so the game was missing a Quaffle to throw around. And then, of course, some absolutely bloody brilliant wizard decided that my Pygmy Puff (out of all things!) could be used in lieu of the Quaffle. I was washing potatoes for the dinner that night when I saw my pink fluff ball being tossed around at breakneck speeds. By the time I had run outside to reprimand you dumbasses, the damage had been done and my poor Pygmy Puff was lying in a crumpled, fluffy pink ball on the ground after it had been 'accidentally' knocked into a broomstick.

Accident, my ass. And its death is all your fault because _you_ were the fucking brilliant wizard who had the damn shitty idea of using my Pygmy Puff as a makeshift Quaffle –

"I'm sorry, Ginny," you say and stand behind me so you can wrap your arms around my waist. "Truly and honestly." You rest your chin on my shoulder and wait for me to scream at you in retribution.

And as much as I want to yell at you, the tears come flowing out first. "He w-was fragile!" I blubber out. "He was a l-living thing with a h-heartbeat and-d a b-b-brain. He was my f-friend – almost family!"

"I know, love," you murmur and stroke my hair gently.

"And you killed him!"

"Not on purpose," you tell me earnestly. "It just . . . happened."

The tears come rushing out even faster.

"Aw, shit," you groan and wipe the tears from my eyes. "Gin, you know I didn't mean to-"

I scowl. "Yeah, but what if you did the same thing with our child? Merlin, Harry, you killed a living thing! Who's to say that you won't do the same thing to our children? You 'didn't mean to' – what a load of bull! You knew all the potential risks when you replaced the Quaffle with my damn Pygmy Puff!"

You've stiffened in excitement behind me. "Our children?" you ask in a glowing voice.

"Yes, our fucking children!" I roll my eyes exasperatedly. One does not need a genius like Hermione to know that you did not hear a single word after I uttered the phrase that has you so entranced at the moment. "And if I don't castrate you now for killing my Pygmy Puff, we might never have children!"

"Adoption," you say absent-mindedly with stars in your eyes as you envision little Harrys and Ginnys running around. "And we always have Teddy." Your hand around my waist rubs my tummy reverently. "You won't castrate me, though. You wouldn't take away the chances of having _our_ children."

I huff indignantly at your smugness. "You never know," I say but the fight has left my voice.

Ron and Hermione choose that moment to come bursting into the kitchen where we've been arguing. "Oh," Ron says unapologetically. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

I know my brother means exactly the opposite – despite you being his best mate, Ron still isn't keen on the idea of me fancying you and you fancying me back even though you and I have been together for about a year now, give or take a few months. "Go away, Ron," I tell my brother crossly.

"Eeee!" Hermione squeals and rushes towards me immediately, her eyes locked on where you are rubbing my stomach. "Oh. My. Godric. Are you pregnant, Ginny?"

Momentarily taken aback – Hermione Granger is _not_ the squeal-y type – I hesitate with my answer. Apparently my little pause is enough to rile Ron up and start shooting you murderous looks.

"Blimey, mate, that better not be the case or else I'll knock you up!" Ron growls out.

The rest of the Weasleys decide to choose this moment to walk in and catch the last few words of Ron's sentence. "What's going on here?" Dad asks about the sudden tension in the room.

Fleur takes one look at you and me and then joins Hermione in the whole squeal-y giggle-fest or whatever. "Ginny, you're pregnant!" my sister-in-law bursts out excitedly.

Whoa, there. Hold up. How is that Hermione and Fleur have decided that I am pregnant before I even knew it? And considering that you and I have never done _it_ yet, well, I think it's time to set my family straight before they start deciding on the pseudo-baby's gender and name.

"Harry, take your hand off me," I hiss to you since that's what has started this whole mess in the first place. You, of course, do no such thing and leave your hand on my tummy. I think it's programmed in your DNA to be the most obtuse and difficult human being on the face of Earth. Addressing the whole group, I say: "What? You guys, I'm not pregnant. That's absurd. I'm only seventeen."

Hermione shrugs. "So? Haven't you heard of _Sixteen and Pregnant_? Or _Teen Mum_?"

Mum shudders – she's more of the traditional type and the wait-until-your-marriage-night kind of witch. "How awful," she exclaims.

I don't know whether she's talking about me not being pregnant (I know how much she's been longing for a grandchild) or the whole scandalous issue of teen witches and Muggles who are pregnant. I'm thinking her opinion about the conversation is a mixture of the two topics.

"Yeah, so, sorry to burst your bubbles," I say bluntly. "Nice to know that ya'll really want me and Harry to have sex and make babies, though."

Ron blanches. "Ahh! My ears! My baby sister dared to talk about procreation with my best mate!"

Behind me, you chuckle at the Ron's immaturity. The rest of my family starts to disperse throughout the house once the whole baby-making drama starts to dissipate and fade away. When it is just me and you left in the kitchen, you whisper in my ear: "Have made your New Year's resolution yet?"

"No; you?"

You finally take your hand of my stomach and mime locking your lips and throwing away the key. "Can't tell you or it won't come true," you say.

"Does it have anything to do with babies?" I guess knowingly.

You wink in response. "I want my wish to come true, Ginny; I can't tell you what it is."

I roll my eyes. "It's a resolution, Harry, not a wish."

"Same difference," you inform me and then dip me into a swoon-worthy kiss.

Happy New Year, indeed.

.

.

"Miss Weasley, what do you plan on doing with your life?" Headmistress McGonagall asks me my second week back from the winter holidays. She peers at me from over her spectacles, studying me carefully from where she sits behind her desk in her office.

The War took a tremendous toll on the Wizarding economy, and now the Ministry requires every school to send in a consensus of the Seventh Years' career plans. Healers and Aurors and all the main professions stop by regularly to recruit students to fill in vacant positions. Hogwarts even hosts a Career Month and invites Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students to come plan their future. And, just recently, Headmistress McGonagall has started up these one-on-one sessions that help the Seventh Years to focus on what job occupation they are most compatible with.

"Quidditch, Headmistress McGonagall," I answer. "I hope to play professional Quidditch."

"Yes, yes, you would do well at that," Headmistress McGonagall praises me with a small note of pride in her voice. She is obviously recalling the time I led Gryffindor to winning the House Cup in my Fifth Year. "But, Minister Shacklebolt is requiring all students to pick a professional and a dream job. Perhaps you can come up with something a little more . . . realistic for the Minister's taste?"

I arch an eyebrow. "I'm sure Kingsley supports me and my Quidditch-playing skills."

Headmistress McGonagall does not bother correcting me on my casual use of Kingsley's name. What she does is arch her own eyebrow right back at me. "Please comply with me and the Ministry rules, Ginny."

I huff. "Alright." I tap my chin in contemplation. There's not really much I want to do in the Wizarding world. I really do not want a Ministry-related job – they are all much too stuffy and uptight for my liking. Healing has never been a strength of mine which is clearly reflected in my Potion marks. Honestly, all I have ever wanted to do with my life is play Quidditch. "I could . . . write for _Quidditch Illustrated_?"

"Could you?"

I nod my head decisively. "Yes. That is going to be my back-up realistic job."

Headmistress McGonagall marks it down on a piece of parchment and then nods her head at me. "Thank you, Miss Weasley. That is all. Please send in Miss Willows."

"Yes, ma'am." I dutifully get up to leave but Headmistress McGonagall asks me to wait for a second.

"Oh, and Ginny? The Holyhead Harpies are down on the Quidditch Pitch. It seems to be that they have a Chaser spot open. I find it to be in your best interests to hurry down immediately and audition for the position. I've taken it upon my liberty to cancel the rest of your classes for today."

My eyes widen in delighted surprise. "Thank you so much!" I say gratefully before I practically fly out of her office.

"Good luck!" I hear her call out from behind me.

.

.

McGonagall granted me no classes this afternoon, so I take advantage of that and inform Hagrid of my absence before I leave the school grounds and Apparate to the Ministry. No, I am not looking for my Dad or for Ron. I'm here because of you.

My hair is wet from the shower I took prior to coming to the Ministry. I had changed out of my Quidditch uniform into some Muggle clothes instead of Hogwarts robes. I didn't think it would be in my best interest to parade around the fact that I am skiving classes right now. Although, avoiding attention seems to be impossible due to the fact that my ginger hair is like a beacon to everybody since they all stop and stare at me as I walk through the Ministry and towards the Department of Magical Law Enforcement where Aurors work.

"Miss, I'm going to need you to stop for identification –" a young wizard who looks like he is barely old enough to be working at the Ministry interrupts my path.

I nod in understanding. "Of course. Sorry. Slipped my mind." I hand over my wand and wait patiently during the whole identification process. Ever since the War, the Ministry has instituted new procedures to tighten its security – wouldn't want another infiltration now, would we?

"M-miss Weasley?" the wizard asks with awestruck wide grey eyes.

"Sir?"

"I am so sorry for taking up your valuable time," he tells me as he stops in the middle of the identification process. "Please proceed on your way."

I eye him curiously. "Alright. Thank you." He gives me my wand back and sweeps into a low bow. I knit my eyebrows together and curtsy to him. Is this a new protocol? Bowing and curtsying? I make a mental note to ask you about this.

Whispers follow in my wake as I catch the next lift to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I try not to pay the gossipers any attention but my ears cannot help but listen to the snippets of conversation flowing around me:

"Look, Kelbe! It's Potter's girlfriend over there!"

"In Rita Skeeter's article in the _Daily Prophet_, it said that Ginny Weasley was his fiancée –"

"What is she wearing? Are cowboy boots in style these days now?"

"At least she doesn't smell like a barn. Rumour has it she is launching a new fragrance called _eau du Pots _in honour of Mr Potter."

_The fuck?_ I ask myself, mentally rolling my eyes at the shit these people are saying. None of it rings a Knut of truth.

"I wish I had red hair like her –"

"I wish I had brown eyes like her –"

"I wish I _was_ her –"

"Oh, shut up Rowling. You just want Harry Potter all for yourself –"

"She's one damn lucky bitch –" The last word is whispered so as to not offend me in case I happened to be listening – which I am but they didn't know that – and is meant as a term of endearment.

The lift stops at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and I exit the lift gratefully to be away from those witches and wizards incessant gossiping. Before the grills close, though, I turn to the witch named Rowling and smile at her graciously. "Thanks," I tell her honestly. "It truly is a dream come true to be with Harry." The lift then departs, carrying Rowling and her friends' incredulous faces away from the Department.

I turn around and search out your office. I've never actually been in the Auror Department except for that time I was asked to clear out Tonks' office for her. The all-too-familiar lump in my throat forms when I think of Tonks and her vivid personality. Merlin, not a day goes past when I don't miss her. In my thoughts and recollections of Tonks, I fail to watch where I am headed, and I crash into something hard which results in a flurry of papers.

"Dobby's sock!" someone curses.

My eyes widen. Only one person in the Wizarding world uses that expression and that is – "Harry! Oh my Godric, I am so sorry." I drop to the ground and help you gather up the pieces of parchment that I had scattered about the Department floor.

You're not moving, though. I look up to see you staring at me in slack-jawed silence. "Gin?" you ask, pulling out of your reverie. "What're you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be at Hogwarts?"

"I dropped out like you mentioned I should do last term," I say seriously although I'm actually just kidding around with you.

I did not think it to be possible, but your jaw dropped even lower at my declaration. "WHAT?"

That outburst causes office doors to fly open and Aurors to come spilling out with wands held pointed straight at me. "Miss, I am going to have to escort you off the premises," a stuffy old gentleman with a belly the size of the Sahara Desert commands me. "You are disturbing and harassing Mr Potter."

I give him a look of incredulity. First of all, I cannot take him seriously when his belly and my eyes are having a staring contest. Secondly, wow, the Ministry is _really_ going overboard with their security team. Or maybe they are not if they have assigned this old codger on it. "I'm not going anywhere," I tell him resolutely. "And if there is any harassment of any kind happening towards Mr Potter right now, it's of the sexual kind. It's not my fault if he can't handle my sexiness."

"Ginny!" you hiss at me in disbelief.

What do you expect? I'm a Weasley; I think it's our trademark to deflect awkward situations with inappropriate humour. "Sorry not sorry?" I offer back as a form of apology.

The codger is looking between me and you in confusion. "What say you?" he asks. "If my ears do not deceive me, you are Miss Ginny Weasley?"

"You don't need ears to know that," I retort. "Just take a look at my hair. Surely you can tell my last name from the atrocious colour gracing my head."

"Gin_ny_," you laugh. To the Aurors crowding around us, you say: "Pay us no mind. My girlfriend's just being . . . _Ginny_ at the moment."

I raise my eyebrows at your horrible explanation. Apparently lying or covering up situations is not your forte. You give me a _just go with it_ look.

The old man with the forty-pound belly harrumphs at us but he cannot do anything because you are _Harry Potter _and I am _Ginny Weasley_ and therefore, as war heroes, we have immunity against the pointless complaints and demanding of office officials such as him. He waddles away into his cubicle with as much dignity as he can muster given the circumstances (and that belly).

You pick up your papers and guide me into your own cubicle. "Wow, Gin. You sure know how to make a dramatic entrance." Your eyes are sparkling with mirth at me.

That reminds me: "Yeah, apparently there's a new law about bowing and curtsying?" I ask you.

"Just to celebrities in the Wizarding world," you say.

"What?" I lean up against a bookshelf and cross my arms across my chest. "I don't think so."

"Why do you ask?" you question, curiosity drawn upon your face.

I shrug. "People were bowing to me and such in the lobby. I'm not a celebrity, Harry. Surely they've gotten the wrong person . . .?"

You grin. "Gin, love, you're like magical royalty these days. You're a war hero considering your significant efforts fighting Voldemort during the Second Wizarding War. And, you're my girlfriend." You set down your papers and cross your office to stand in front of me so you can lean in and give me a kiss. "That's pretty special, isn't it?"

"I should be given an award for having to deal with your ego on a daily basis," I grumble good-naturedly and kiss you again.

"Ouch, Gin," you say in a mock-hurt voice. "How you wound me so!"

"You'll get over it," I remark flippantly and snuggle up into your arms.

"Mm," you murmur. "If you say so." We stay embraced for a couple of minutes, lost in the feel of each other. Your interest has finally gotten the better of you, though. "And to what do I owe to enjoying your lovely company when I believe you should be in Transfiguration at the moment? And why is your hair wet? Is it raining outside?"

I bite my lip in excitement and push you away gently. "See my T-shirt, Harry?"

At first, your face is a look of genuine hurt at my rejection of your hug, but then it transforms into puzzlement as your eyes fly down to stare at the logo emblazoned upon my shirt. "I don't understand . . .?" you ask, your eyes never moving off my chest.

I roll my eyes. "Godric, Harry, you are _such_ a male. I wasn't asking you to stare at my boobs."

"Oh," is your response. Then you actually look at my shirt rather than my breasts. Your eyes widen once you make the connection. "Gin . . .?"

"Yup," I say in smug satisfaction. "You're looking at the Holyhead Harpies' newest right-wing Chaser."

.

.

"Ginvera Weasley!" Headmistress McGonagall announces.

I step in front of the Great Hall, a big smile plastered on my face. Looking out into the sea of faces, I get the feeling of déjà vu from a scene six years ago when I was Sorted in Hogwarts. Six years of perfection that I never, ever want to forget.

I accept the diploma Headmistress McGonagall hands to me, smiling the entire time. "Thank you," I whisper to her.

You're the first one to call out a cheer after I hold my diploma. It's fitting, after all. You were the first one I heard cheering when I was Sorted. Mind you, you were off stuck in the Whomping Willow, but your murmuring of congratulations six years ago was the first words of praise that my brain processed.

I throw my graduation cap off, and you hand me a baseball cap in return. "Ready?" you ask, laughter in your eyes.

"Always," is my answer. "As long as you're with me."


	11. Of Holly Wood and Phoenix

**Author's Note: This chapter is PG-13 for indirect mentions of the you-know-what that goes on when a witch and a wizard love each other very much and . . . well, I'm not your Health teacher so, you know, this isn't going to be like a textbook description but it's not going to be racy or anything or have lemons because this is rated T and not M and . . . yeah, I'm rambling. Let's just say Harry and Ginny are in their late teens in this chapter, so they are definitely two crazy, hormonal people.**

* * *

_**Of Holly Wood and Phoenix**_

We're standing in London-Heathrow Airport when you finally tell me what's going on. You look around furtively to see if there are Muggles paying us any attention, and once you deem the coast is clear, you pull two miniature trunks out of your pocket and then un-shrink them so they are life-size. Then, with the biggest smile imaginable, you hand me an airplane ticket.

My jaw drops down. I can't help it. You've really outdone yourself, Superman.

"Harry!" I exclaim excitedly, eyes shining with the most happiness I have ever felt. I take the ticket out of your hand and stare at it in wonder.

You bite your lip to prevent the cocky self-assured smile from appearing. "Cheers for graduating Hogwarts, Gin," you congratulate me. "Thought you might want to get out of the country this summer; explore the world a bit, you know?"

I nod my head animatedly. "Oh my Merlin!" I breathe and pull you into a fierce hug. "Godric, this is perfect, Harry! America! You bought me a trip to America!"

You hug me back graciously. "Yeah, I was thinking West Coast this time: San Francisco, Los Angeles, Hollywood, Vegas, Phoenix . . . we'll have come back some other time to hit the East Coast."

"You're coming with me on my trip?" I ask hopefully.

Laughing, you gesture towards the two trunks. "Yeah. Hope you don't mind. Hermione packed yours before graduation. And I _have_ to come with you – I can't have those American blokes flirting with you now, can I?"

I arch an eyebrow coyly. "Who says they won't flirt with me even with you tagging along?"

You let out this adorable little growl and whisper possessively in my ear: "You're _mine_, Ginny, and those blokes will damn well know it since I am never letting you out of arm's reach."

"Not even when I'm in the bathroom and showering?" I ask innocently.

"Definitely not then," you reply with your eyes smouldering.

Our plane number is called to board just then, but I already feel like I am flying from the looks and kisses you are giving me. This trip to America – I checked the dates on the tickets and we don't have to come back to Britain for four whole months! – is going to be the best time of my life of just you and me without my nosey parents or my insensitive brothers who cannot decide between wanting to beat you up or congratulate you for dating me. It's simply you and me for four whole months. Merlin, I am so glad to have graduated.

.

.

"Aah! We're gonna die! We're gonna die!" I chant loudly, squeezing my eyes shut in horror.

"Relax, Gin," you chuckle, although you are pretty tense yourself.

I moan dreadfully. You and I are stuck in some Godric-awful banana-yellow vehicle you call a 'taxi'. Apparently Muggles in America use this thing to get from place-to-place. The only Muggle taxis I have glimpsed in my life are the classy black ones in England with the simple yet elegant numbers printed neatly on the license plates which are fastened to the boot; not these tacky license plates with colourful cartoon images (that stay still!) and have slogans as well as the states' name in the gaudiest colours imaginable. Anaesthetically appealing appearance aside, the taxi also happened to drive on the wrong side of the road, hence my screaming of our impending doom.

Then again, I might be over-reacting just a teeny bit because this taxi thing isn't going faster than a Flobberworm being chased by a Blast-Ended Skrewt. It seems to be traffic around the Los Angeles airport, LAX, merely crawls on a Sunday afternoon. However, jet lag is catching up to me (the excitement of this trip hindered me from sleeping on that overnight plane ride from Heathrow) and since it is currently quarter past ten in England, my sleep schedule is sufficiently all screwed up.

"How much longer to our bed-and-breakfast?" you lean forward and ask the chauffer.

The chauffer shrugs his shoulders unhelpfully. "Mebbe half an hour . . . or so," he replies vaguely.

"Thanks," you tell him and scoot back next to me. "It's going to be awhile, Ginny. Here, just use my shoulder as a pillow. It won't help with the jet lag but you look like death," you say.

"Well that's nice to know," I remark dryly. I guess Hermione didn't teach you about the tactfulness with which a guy needs to use to speak to a girl. But at the moment, I cannot find it in myself to reprimand you or start an argument. Within seconds, I am cuddling up to you and drifting off away from reality.

.

.

It's a jean short-shorts and tank top sort of day in California. I've got my hair pulled up into the messiest bun imaginable, and my Ray Bans are re-colouring the world into a monochromatic rosy-sepia. The Hollywood sign in the hills is behind me and there is not a single puff of white dotting the crystal clear blue sky making this scene the perfect postcard background I have ever seen in real life.

You snap some pictures of me posing like the photogenic person that I am. I try out the whole pout-with-duck-lips trend that I've seen some other American girls do whenever they photograph themselves but I find out that I feel completely ridiculous and simply unbeautiful. I revert back to a more innate pose and blow the camera a kiss. You laugh and reach out to grab my air-kiss while you click away on your camera. Then I make some ugly faces just to get you to laugh and smile as much as I am. It works.

A tourist group comes and encroaches upon our little spot. I can tell by their flickering insincere eyes that they are impatient for us to leave so they can get their tourist-memoirs. You tell them hello politely and then make for the motorcycle you have borrowed. I tug on your arm gently, though. Before we leave, I want a picture of you and me.

Shadows start forming across the rocky outcrop we are standing on as the sun travels a little higher in the sky and clouds start billowing in. You catch the attention of one of the tourists who flirts with you amiably ("I'm Holly," I hear her giggle to you while she twirls a strand of her raven-black hair on her finger. She oddly reminds me of Cho. . . .) until you gesture over in my direction. I give Holly a little finger-wave and she pouts a bit, strengthening the similarity between Cho and her. I then see her nod to you and she takes the camera from your hands. You walk over to me and tell me that "Miss Holly is going to take our picture in front of the Hollywood hills for us" – as if I hadn't heard you two. I tell myself to calm down on the jealousy, though. I know you are just naturally polite and such a gentleman to every female on the planet. It's endearing when you use that charm on me, Superman, but when you do it to other girls, I want to hit you with a Bludger or something.

"Ready?" Holly asks with a cheery smile.

You grin at me and reach over to move my Ray Bans off my eyes and onto the top of my head. I squint at the sudden bright light and glare at you for blinding my vision.

"One . . . two . . . –"

And then the sun comes shining through the clouds, creating the prettiest natural-filter I have ever seen. You whisper in my ear how much you love me and how happy you are to share this experience with me. Your lips have just touched mine when I hear the shutter of your camera go off in Holly's hands, capturing our kiss and our love for forever.

.

.

I feel like such a Cali girl by the time our three weeks in California are over with. My pale skin – a curse of being a redhead – hasn't freckled or sunburned (yet). For now, my skin is being tinted a warm, honey golden shade which compliments my hair nicely. The red hue of my hair is fading from its typical vibrant colour as it is slowly being sun-bleached into a strawberry blonde. I've gotten some Godric-awful tan lines – but that's only because I have spent most of this summer vacation soaking up the sun in my bikini on these gorgeous Californian beaches.

Malibu definitely remains my favourite place so far. We went there last week. You received some surfing lessons while I tanned and lounged about in the cool Pacific waters and sand. I wasn't one to try surfing despite whatever claims about me makes anyone think I'll do anything sporty (which is true for the most part). Sharks really freak me out and I refused to get on a surfboard because of my fear of them. I was quite alright with staying on the beach, playing a few rounds of volleyball, and watching you wipe out a few times on the board. You turned out to be a pretty decent surfer – must be due to your natural apt of flying and your skill on a broomstick – so I wonder how you'll do if you try that Muggle sport called snowboarding. Either way, I think you'll look damn sexy as you do right now with the sun in your hair and that glowing tan showcased since your shirt is off which exposes your defined abs and that glorious, tantalising spattering of hair beneath your belly button which leads to . . . well. Is it just me or is it a little hot out here? I fan myself gently with a travel brochure and lean back as I pull my Ray Bans down to cover my eyes while I appreciate you and your body from behind the tinted lenses. Mmm. By Merlin, I am definitely the lucky one to be the girl you've fallen in love with.

But back to last week and why Malibu Beach is my absolute favourite. Despite the ridiculous amount of Muggles you seemed to attract on the beach (it's like I was invisible to those simpering bimbos or something) and those couple of Muggles who wanted me to become a modelling client for them (like hell I would do that. It was flattering but I don't need any more fame) and the few and far between mishaps as we toured around the nightlife and city life of San Francisco, Los Angeles, and San Diego, California was the prettiest place for paradise that I had ever been to. Palm trees don't exist in England. Neither do all the tropical concoctions and laid-back beach-y clubs. I was only seventeen going on eighteen, so Muggle law dictated that I was unable to drink alcoholic beverages (you too, for the matter) but since we were legal in the Wizarding world, we took the liberty of applying our legality to our Muggle vacation.

And let me tell you, I thought Firewhiskey was strong but that is _nothing_ compared to how smashed tequila shots, rum-and-Coke, and Vodka straight-up or mixed cocktails, can make a person act absolutely mental.

You're adorable when you are drunk, by the way. And completely horny. And you also talk about things like marriage and babies and the future, but you've always discussed that so I don't run screaming for the Hollywood hills when you ambush me with all of that heavy stuff. Did I mention you are the horniest person _ever_ when you're drunk? It's like you've got this thing hard-wired into your brain: _Must procreate. Must have sex. Must hump every female thing in sight – especially Ginny._ I push you away teasingly, of course. Mum would have my head on a stick if I lost my virginity before my wedding night. But _Merlin_ I can't wait for our wedding night now that you've given me all of these previews of what is to come.

San Francisco was fun to visit. It's a big city with its trendiness and A-listers walking around town like it is not a big deal to see that Muggle celebrity Jennifer Aniston jog around downtown in nothing but a sports bra and spandex shorts. I don't care much for 'Cisco what with all the fake peroxide blondes and cone boobs practically stabbing at me while they try to bat their clumpy drugstore-bought eyelashes at you. The earthquake memorial was pretty impressive and sad to see – all those lives affected by that tragedy is mind-blowing and a sincere eye-opener to how much a natural disaster can impact human life.

San Diego is pretty too with all those palm trees lining every street and the sky visible from every point in the city. The zoo is the highlight of that city, though. I could spend hours making faces at the animals or swimming with the dolphins with you. I make sure to avoid the sharks, of course. Oh, and petting the sting rays! Now, I know I could do all of this at the London Zoo but it definitely is not the same. London doesn't have dolphins you can swim with, now do they? (And if they did, they were hiding from me when I went there last summer.)

And of course, Hollywood. You and I walked up and down Hollywood Boulevard and went over to swim at Laguna Beach and picked out our dreamhouse/mansion out on the coast of California. We snapped selfie photos with candid celebrity shots in the background. I learned quite a lot about you and your preferences from this little excursion: who knew you had a thing for that British actress Emma Wats-her-name. Don't think that I didn't see those glazed eyes when you watched her perky ass leave the fast-food restaurant when we stopped by the local In-N-Out for a couple of burgers.

But Malibu remains my favourite part of California. Sure, the zoo and sight-seeing celebrities and famous landmarks was great, but on this trip I've found out that the beach is my new home and summer is my new favourite season. And that you, Mr Potter, are horny as fuck. Literally.

You're driving a rental car down to Phoenix, Arizona now. The sun is setting and a new chapter of our life is beginning. And I can sound like a cliché all that I want to because you're my Superman who has made my life a wonderful sort of a fairytale.

.

.

Phoenix is a pretty well-known city but there is nothing tourist-y and extravagant about it. It's murderously hot down here, though, and the damn air-conditioning is not working in this piece-of-shit rental car. I'm irritable and insufferably cranky and you are starting to get a helluva annoying. You are way too fucking patient with me and you're not taking my bait and getting into an argument with me like I want you to because I am as bored as a class in Divination and verbally fighting with you is the only thing that will pass the hours in this over-heated, rusted-up, junky-ass rental car.

"I'm tired," I whine at you.

"Take a nap then," you reply unwearyingly.

"I can't. This shitty Muggle music is playing and I can't sleep with it on."

This elicits a teeny frown from you but other than that, your calm façade stays in place. "Don't disrespect the Beatles, Gin. Or Def Leppard." You reach over and shut the car stereo off, though.

Now it's too quiet and I hate being able to hear my thoughts. "Hairrr-eeeee," I complain loudly.

"What?"

"I'm bored."

"Count some sheep and then go to sleep."

"There's not a damn sheep in sight for me to count."

"Sucks to suck."

I scowl. I want to make some sort of inappropriate remark about something else I could suck on (and no, I'm not talking about a lollie) but then you'll get all horny and I don't want to put in the effort or whatever. Like I said, I'm tired and bored. And lazy, too.

"Are we there yet?" I complain.

Your knuckles tighten on the steering wheel infinitesimally. I see you also clench your jaw in my left peripheral vision. It is rather odd for me to be sitting in the driver's side of the car but technically in America, this is the passenger seat. By the way, you're quite good at driving on the wrong side of the road. You have managed not to get us in an accident so far.

"Ginny, _please_ go to sleep."

I pout. "But I'm not tired," I lie.

"Didn't you just say you were?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Yes, you did."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Did not."

All of the sudden, you let out a big belly laugh. "Look at us," you chuckle with mirth, glancing over at me where I've got my shades on, arms crossed over my chest, and defiant pout gracing my lips. "We're arguing like an old married couple."

"But we're not," I say belligerently. "We're not old and we're not married. So your analogy sucks."

You roll your eyes at me. "Whatever. Same difference."

"Admit it," I crow gleefully. "You're wrong and I'm right."

"Are not."

"Am too."

"Are not."

"Yes, I am!"

"Alright, alright," you say in defeat. "You're wrong and I'm right."

"Yes, exactly –" I pause as your words register in my brain. "Hey! Take that back, Harry!"

"I absolutely will not."

"Yes you absolutely will!"

"Will not."

"Will too!"

"Will not."

"Will t –" My words are suddenly cut off as you swerve off the highway and onto the dusty red earth of the Arizona desert. I look at you in indignant shock – you just ruined a perfectly good argument, you know – but unexpectedly you unclip your seatbelt and are climbing over the console before you grab my face in my hands and snog me senseless.

"Shut up, Ginny," you tell me breathlessly.

"Alright," I concede happily as your lips swallow my words into your mouth.

The ride to Phoenix is then interrupted with many much needed kissing breaks. It helps me stop quarrelling with you, and the car ride across the Arizona desert is much quieter and pleasant. I don't even complain about the lack of air-conditioning anymore.

.

.

We cruise on through the downtown area of Phoenix. The city is rather large and grandiose but it's nothing spectacular. I mean, it's a spectacular city but when you think of America and the West Coast, you do not think of Phoenix or the bloody hot desert and the prickly pear cacti. I was under the impression that this America trip was supposed to highlight the key points of the West side of America – and a key point Phoenix was not.

"We're just spending a few days here, nothing major," you tell me once again when I voice my thoughts questioning our reasons for travelling here.

"A few days that we could've spent in Malibu? Or in Honolulu?"

"Oh, Merlin," you fake groan. "I've created a bloody monster here who is now afflicted with wanderlust!"

I burst into giggles. "My lust isn't wandering," I smirk.

Your eyes widen, and the green irises darken until I can almost no longer distinguish your pupil from the once-bright green irises. You lean over and nip lovingly at my neck while you growl out playfully: "You, Mrs Potter, are one big tease." Then you proceed to tickle me mercilessly in the spots that weaken my knees and stutter my breathing.

Through my laughing and my irregular breathing, I almost miss the fact that you called me Mrs Potter. But my mind isn't completely clouded with trying to swat your tickling hands away, and I hear you loud and clear when you label me your future wife. And that's when I realise that I wouldn't mind being the Lois Lane to your Superman.

.

.

"Where are we going?" I ask as we head into a cosy little French café on our third day in Phoenix.

"We're meeting Wood for lunch," you smile.

"Wood?" I say, looking around the lamp-lit restaurant. I immediately spy the Puddlemere Keeper sitting over by the glass floor-to-ceiling window a couple hundred metres away. He's at a booth enclosed with crawling ivy and a tumbling waterfall bordering it on one side. "What is he doing here in America? And in Phoenix out of all places! There's nothing Quidditch-related here that would strike his fancy."

You arch any eyebrow at me but do not comment on my musings. At the podium, you tell the hostess that we're meeting a friend for brunch and that he is sitting over in that private little area. She smiles in understanding, but then her eyes widen in happy recognition. My eyes do the same but it is more in dread than happiness.

Our hostess just so happens to be that flirty tourist, Holly.

"Harry!" she squeals giddily and comes out from behind the hostess' podium to give you a big ol' hug which you (unfortunately) reciprocate with as much happiness as Holly is showing. "Wow! Never thought I would see you again!"

I roll my eyes at her. But then I remember that I'm not supposed to be jealous – but she's acting so much like Cho that I can't help myself! I swear, I am not even _trying_ to act superior than Holly; her ditsy-ness and incessant need to giggle and say 'like' every five seconds automatically makes me look loads more intelligent than her.

"Er, yeah," you say as she smooshes her (fake) boobs against your chest. "Hi, again."

I grab your wrist and lead you away from the obvious boyfriend-stealer. "I think we can find where our friend is sitting, thanks. There's no need for your assistance." Then I haul ass to get away from this Holly chick so we can escape over to Wood.

You frown at me. "Ginny, there was no need to be so rude," you chastise me.

"Whatever," I mutter and wave at Oliver Wood. "Hey! Long time no see!" Wood gets up out of his seat politely and embraces me in a friendly fashion. "Do you play Quidditch?" I ask him, gearing up to a punch line of a joke I had recently heard. Wood raises his eyebrows at me in a _duh_ sort-of look but obliges me and lets me finish the joke. "Because you look like a Keeper!" I say with a wide grin.

He chuckles. "Oh dear Merlin, don't let any of my groupies hear that one; they never stop flirting with me as is!"

You, on the other hand, scowl at me even more. "Ginny, that joke wasn't funny."

I huff at your ridiculousness. "Of course it was. I'm bloody hilarious, thank you very much. I bet _Holly_ would've laughed. And I didn't mean it in the romantic sense to Wood – _you_ know that. So lighten up, you Dementor of unhappiness." I punch your shoulder a little harder than I would have if I were messing around with you and turn back to Wood so we can catch up and talk about his Quidditch career. I need a few pointers on the business since I am now the Holyhead Harpies' newest Chaser. Which reminds me, I haven't broken the news to anyone else but you so far.

You're glowering at me as we take our seats, obviously regretting your decision to meet up with Wood. Oh, well. You can just deal.

Minutes than turn into hours pass by as we order brunch and chat with Wood about everything and nothing. Sometime during a conversation about the newest broom models and pro-Quidditch and Krum's flying statistics, you and I make up from our little fight. It helps that Holly isn't hovering around us or substituting in as our waitress anymore once her boss yells at her to get back to her podium. I can't help but aim a Stinging Hex at her ass as she stomps sullenly away. She yelps and grabs her ass, causing a scene. What can I say? Flirting with you would only come back to bite her in the ass. And since I'm a witch, well, I meant that little phrase literally.

At the end of our brunch, Wood surreptitiously slips you a little package which you not-so-sneakily slide into your coat pocket. You would make the worst James Bond ever. You may be Superman but please, do not ever consider registering with MI6 anytime soon. Your ass would be kicked to the curb faster than a Thestral taking flight.

.

.

There seems to be a lot of casinos in Phoenix. Gambling has never seemed interesting to me, but a person only lives once and I kind of want to try betting money sometime on this trip. You grin wickedly at me and tell me that if I want to play in the big leagues, I'd have to go to Vegas.

So, of course, that's where we go next.

.

.

Las Vegas is legendary. The casinos, the martinis and shots, the nightlife and all the clubbing, The Strip lit up in all its neon-glory at night, a replica of the Eiffel Tower, Caesar's Palace and the naked statues, the little churches where Elvis Presley impersonators act as ministers, Las Vegas Boulevard, the M&M store . . . it's like a party zone twenty-four seven and yes, I find it all so perfect. I never, ever want to leave.

But one night, when we're on some cheesy tourist attraction that provides a gondola ride to the 'Forbidden City', you ask the Italian gondola driver to stop steering the boat and stop his awful singing (sorry, not all Italians are as glamorous as they seem, apparently). Then, you kneel down on one knee and withdraw the little box that I saw Wood give to you in Phoenix. Fireworks – yes, real live fireworks – splatter the sky and the stars as you ask the question:

"Ginny, will you marry me?"

And I say yes because, well, I'm Ginny Weasley and you're Harry Potter and I've loved you since the very first day that I met you.

After you slip the ring on my fourth finger and we share the best kiss of our lives, I snort at the cheesiness of the way you proposed. I mean, seriously, fireworks? And a gondola ride? You laugh along with me and explain that you had a more elaborate plan to ask me – something about this whole trip and your hints at calling me your wife and mentioning the future and babies and marriage all the damn time and meeting Wood because he had to get the ring hand-delivered from Manchester because it was Goblin-and-custom-made and that he could only meet up with us in Phoenix since he has a Quidditch tournament there this week and so much stuff depended on the stars aligning and the precise angle of the sun's rays hitting the Earth's ozone layer and my father had given you his blessing a couple years ago (I really wasn't paying attention to your explanation in case you haven't noticed. I'm sure that I messed up a bunch on relating whatever you just rambled to me) – but that right now the moment felt right.

I couldn't agree with you more.

* * *

**Author's Note: Yes, this chapter title is a play on words. One translation could be: Holly (the person), Wood (the person), and Phoenix (the city). Another translation could be: Hollywood (the city) and Phoenix (the city). And yet another translation could be: holly wood and phoenix [feathers] just like what Harry's wand is made out of.**

**And yes, more details of the wedding and Ginny's ring and all of that insanely girly shit coming up in the next chapter ;)**


	12. Speak Now or Forever Hold Your Peace

**_Speak Now or Forever Hold Your Peace_**

"Ginny, _what_ is on your hand?!" Hermione exclaims during Sunday dinner at The Burrow. You and I have returned from our fabulous trip to America, and immediately my mother had invited us to dinner the Sunday after our arrival so we could discuss our vacation in detail.

I use the hand that my engagement ring is on to tuck hair behind my left ear. "Oh, er, you mean my engagement ring?" I ask her with a big grin.

There is a sudden silence at the table. Everyone's eyes swivel to stare at you and me. "Your what, dear?" Mum asks slowly, hope lighting her eyes.

I hold my hand up and shake my hand like Beyoncé does in her music video of the 'Single Ladies'. "I'm not a single lady anymore," I grin.

"Whoa, you mean Harry grew a pair this summer and finally popped the question?" says Ron, ever-so-tactfully.

You glare at your best mate. "Thanks for the encouragement and confidence you have in me, mate," you mutter sarcastically.

"No problem," Ron says, obliviously.

"Weel, do not 'ide eet," Fleur pronounces in her heavily-accented English. "'old eet up so we can see!"

I set my fork down slowly and dab at my mouth daintily with my napkin to draw out the wait. Once Mum starts shooting me impatient looks, I hurry my ass up. Everyone ooh's and aah's over it, exclaiming at the beauty of the ring you gave me.

"Is that . . . a Quaffle in the centre?" Angelina Johnson-Weasley, George's wife, asks in awe. "How the bloody hell did you manage that, Harry?"

You smile sheepishly. "It's actually a ruby in the shape of a Quaffle," you explain. "And it is Goblin and custom-made so I actually have no idea how it was made. Sorry."

"Still," Bill wolf-whistles. "That is a big ass ring you're wearing, Gin."

"I'm loving the whole Gryffindor pride you've got on," Hermione plaudits. "Nice, Harry. A gold ring with a ruby Quaffle in the centre. Is that engraving etched on the Quaffle's surface?"

I nod. "Yup. It says 'You are the Chaser who is the Keeper of my heart' ."

"Oh, how _romantic_," Mum coos. "Harry, darling, you are so sweet and thoughtful, you dear boy. Welcome to the family – not that you weren't part of it before."

You blush next to me. "Thank you so much Mrs Weasley. I just wish Ginny could meet my own parents and share their congratulations."

Mum looks at you fondly. "Oh, dearie, we all wish that the Potters were still alive. But I'll try my hardest to be some sort of Mum to you; just help me out and start calling me 'Mum'. No more of this 'Mrs Weasley' stuff, alright?"

You nod your head happily and smile gratefully at my mother. "Yes, Mum," you say obediently and reach over to clasp my hands. "Love you," you mouth indiscreetly at me.

I squeeze our hands. "Love you," I mouth back as everyone chuckles over how adorable we are together.

And that is exactly how we announced are engagement to my family.

.

.

"Are you going to have your wedding here at The Burrow like Fleur did?" Mum asks me expectantly the next morning. She flips the bacon on the stove and has a hand on her hip, creating an image that is completely matronly.

I shake my head. "I don't think so." The waffle press dings and I take out the plain golden waffles and spoon in a ladleful of batter that is freckled with mini chocolate chips.

"Why not? We could re-use the tents and the stage and that minister. Not to mention all of the decorations and –"

Resolutely, I say: "I'm not Fleur, Mum. I don't want my wedding to be a carbon copy of hers."

"Well, of course not," Mum blinks as the bacon pops and sizzles in the frying pan.

"And Mum, I'm only seventeen –"

"Eighteen in three weeks," she interjects.

"Yes, yes, whatever. Point is, I don't want to get married fresh out of Hogwarts –"

"Is there something wrong with that?" Mum asks, arching her eyebrows at me.

Immediately, I backtrack. "No, there is nothing wrong with marrying straight out of school. I know that's what you and Dad did. But times have changed, Mum, and I do not want to be traditional like you and Dad were. I love Harry, I really do, but I want to make a name for myself in my job profession before I commit to being tied down to him and babies and our household family."

Mum slides the bacon onto a plate and sighs. "Ginny, I know you think you know best, dear, but you cannot support yourself on a silly Quidditch salary –"

"Mum," I say, not wanting to hear another word of the foolish argument she is trying to present. "I am seventeen. I'm legal to do whatever I want in the Wizarding world. Please, just let me make my own decisions and my own mistakes."

"Darling," she tells me as she puts the plate down on the table. I slide the plate stacked full of waffles that I have been making beside her plate of bacon. "I just want the best for my baby girl."

I smile ruefully. "But I am not a baby anymore, Mum. You've got to let me out from under your wing."

Mum stares at me, searching for something in my eyes. She must have found whatever she is looking for because after a few moments, she dips her head and turns away. "Very well." She lifts the corner of her apron and dabs at her eyes. "Call everyone down for breakfast, Ginny," she tells me with her back turned towards me.

Guilt and remorse floods over me for making my mother cry, but I force myself to stand strong and support my side of our argument because deep inside my heart, I know we both know that I am right. "Alright," I say and leave the kitchen. I go to the stairs and yell: "Wake up you Blast-Ended Skrewts! Breakfast is on the table!"

Soon, the thundering of feet pounds down the stairs. When I and everybody else in the family enter the kitchen, Mum's face is wiped dry. It looks like our row never happened but I know it did because Mum catches my eye as she pours the syrup and nods infinitesimally. It's not a grand gesture and does not mean that she supports me a hundred percent, but I know it means that she respects my decision and that is all that matters the most to me right now.

.

.

Over tea right before my first Quidditch season starts as the Holyhead Harpies' right-wing Chaser, Hermione, Luna, and I, plus Brenna Burt (she's the left-wing Chaser I had met during auditions and we immediately became besties) go to _The Three Broomsticks_ in Hogsmeade to discuss wedding details. Well, _I _thought we were just having a friendly get together. The other three were setting me up so we could talk about the wedding.

"So . . . have you set a date yet?" Hermione asks nonchalantly with an eager look in her eyes as she carefully stirs in a teaspoon of sugar into her tea. We're sitting at the back in a secluded spot, so I'm not worried about anyone overhearing.

I give Hermione a look. "I just turned eighteen two days ago," I say. "I'm not getting married while I am still a teenager." My tone is final; hopefully everyone will stop getting on my ass about getting married any day now.

"Then why the bloody hell would you accept Harry's proposal?" Brenna asks bluntly, flipping her extremely curly glossy chestnut hair over her shoulder. When I first met her, I knew we would be besties based on her blunt honesty and habit of cursing at least once in every sentence. "The poor bloke is prolly expecting you to be planning your white wedding. And so is the damn media – you know that since ya'll two are these famous hotshots, your wedding is going to be publicised."

"Yeah," I sigh, not liking that idea. "I know. But Bee, Harry couldn't possibly expect me to settle down and all that romantic shit once we got married. I mean, he _knows_ me. He knows that I want to make a name for myself out on the Quidditch Pitch and that I cannot possibly do that if I have to worry about children or when to pick them up from day care or if little Lily has a cold or that James is getting into all sorts of mischief –"

"Children aren't that bad," Luna says serenely, one hand on her barely bumping two-months-pregnant belly. She and Lorcan Salamander-or-whatever-his-last-name-is are a proud, glowing couple these days as they expect their firstborn in a couple of months.

Hermione, on the other hand, focuses on another part of my words. "You and Harry have already picked out the names of your children?!" she exclaims, one hand over her mouth to stop her growing smile from, well, growing even more.

"And after his parents," Brenna nods her head in approval. "That's really sweet of you two."

I blush. I hadn't meant to let that slip out. "Oh, er, well, yeah." I take a sip of my tea to shield myself from their beaming faces.

"So, if you haven't got a date yet, do you at least know _where_ you want your wedding?" Hermione persists on the dreaded wedding topic. I know she is hurting because she and my brother broke up a few weeks ago, but I wish she would relent a little about this whole wedding ordeal.

"A beach," I respond immediately, thinking of Malibu.

"A beach," Brenna repeats. "I'm guessing you mean a tropical, international one and not one on the coast of Britain?"

"Gin . . .," Hermione says, her voice trailing off.

Luna shakes her head. "That's a nice dream but not very practical, is it?"

Great. If _Luna _tells me something isn't practical, I really know it is not. "Yeah, that's my dream location. I know it would be a pain in the ass with getting everyone to a gorgeous, sunny beach, but think of the sound of the ocean being _right there_ or not having to wear heels – everyone could go barefoot or wear some cute, strappy sandals – and I would put starfish decals in my hair or, like, little pearls, and sea glass and plumeria flowers would line the sandy walkways to a pretty, white arch that is covered with de-thorned bougainvillea because it drapes nicely over trellises and –"

"Oh dear, Merlin," I hear Brenna stage-whisper to Hermione and Luna. "She finally learns to start planning her wedding but it's the one wedding we told her she prolly could not have."

"Well, then, an autumn wedding," I say, imagining golds and yellows and reds and maybe a few splashes of green colouring my white wedding.

"You know, autumn's not too far away. You could still get married this year," Hermione pipes in. I scowl at her and she bursts out laughing. "Just teasing, Gin," she giggles.

"Not funny," I roll my eyes at her.

"I like the autumn idea," Luna says dreamily. "And you could always do it at that cute little church in Godric's Hollow if you want to stay close to Harry's roots. Maybe even incorporate his parents' into it."

"Yeah," I say, my mind a million kilometres away as I think on that idea. "October thirty-first."

Brenna puts her hand on my arm gently. I snap back to the present and raise an eyebrow questioningly at her. "Are you sure that day won't be too emotional for Harry?" she asks in concern. "I mean, it's the anniversary of his parents' death. He might not be . . . alright with having your wedding on that day too."

"I'm alright with it," I hear your voice say unexpectedly.

"What the bloody hell?!" I scream and nearly jump out my seat.

Everyone at the table starts laughing at me and my reaction. You suddenly appear in the chair besides Hermione that I thought she was occupying with her purse. "Hey, love. Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. Hermione suggested I tag along with her and hear what your plans of the wedding were since you are so tight-lipped about it. I just wanted to know what your thoughts were."

I frown. "You could've asked me –"

"I have," you say gently. "But you never answer."

I look away and take a sip of my now-lukewarm tea just so I have something to do with my hands.

Hermione, thankfully, takes the attention off of me. "So, good, we're making progress. Harry, feel free to add in any of your own thoughts since, you know, this is your wedding too. Gin, you've said you wanted a wedding in autumn, preferably October thirty-first –"

"Actually, how about we say our vows at midnight between October thirty-first and November first?" I ask you. "Just, er, because once we have kids we'll want to trick-or-treat and I kind of want to celebrate our wedding anniversary not on a day where everybody's high on sugar and –"

"Sounds good," you agree. "But what about the lighting? I thought you would want an autumn wedding because of the sun and all of the changing colours."

"Yeah," I say, thinking on that. "That would be pretty. However, I want to share our wedding with your parents but not on Halloween."

"You could use candles," Luna says about our lighting. "Those lend a pretty, soft glow."

"Not to mention add to the spookiness of the holiday and the romance of your wedding," Brenna says. "Depending on which type of candle you use."

Hermione looks at you and me, slowly, hesitantly. "Would you two mind saying your vows and having the wedding ceremony at Hogwarts? I know you two have a special connection with the castle and it does go with the Halloween theme since Hogwarts always go overboard with decorations. And then you could go over to Godric's Hallow for the reception."

I shiver at that last thought. "As much as I love your parents, Harry, I'm not comfortable with the idea of having our reception in a graveyard at night when it is Halloween."

You nod. "Yeah, I know what you mean. Hmm. How about we go to Godric's Hallow before we do the wedding ceremony at Hogwarts? And then the reception can be at The Burrow."

Everyone nods their head in agreement at that plan. "It's a start," I say and sit back and think on our future together and the day that will mark the rest of forever with you. On a Wednesday in a café, I watch my wedding get planned as my friends and you brainstorm and finalise decisions.

October 31st, so many years from now, I'll be known as Mrs Potter.

.

.

Memories float down like the autumn leaves surrounding us. We, just the two of us, are standing in front of your parent's graves. The morning sunlight dapples the ground all around us, and once again, I am struck by the image of how angelic and pure you look. A golden halo of sunlight hovers slightly above your head, adding to the image.

The world is bathed in lush tones of rich honey gold, fiery crimson, flaming tongues of orange, buttercup yellows that darken into starbursts of light, and the occasional splattering of a warm chocolate brown or fresh lively green. Down in the village of Godric's Hallow, a few paces away from the cemetery that we are standing in, cottages are decorated with pumpkins and candles and festivities that are celebrating Halloween and the arrival of autumn. The air is cold, but with your hand in mine, I feel as warm as ever.

Today, actually, is Halloween. And I am getting married to you tonight when the full moon shines bright through the halls of Hogwarts. I'm twenty-one now and you're twenty-two. The Holyhead Harpies and I have managed to bring home the Quidditch World Cup on two separate occasions as well as be named in the Quidditch Hall of Fame. You're Head Auror in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and have been nominated for the Order of Merlin First Class, Wizard of the Year, a candidate in the Top Ten Most Influential Wizard and Witches, a candidate in Top Five Most Expensive Witches and Wizards (I think you are thought to be worth 30 million Galleons?), and the prestigious Albus Dumbledore Award (I have no idea what constitutes a person eligible for this one).

Results come in by owl mail this week. However, I think being named a Potter is the best title of all.

* * *

**Author's Note: Be a hero and review to let me know if you actually wanted to read about their wedding. I wasn't sure if it would be boring or too repetitive, but I do have a rough outline of it typed up, so yeah, review if you want it posted or PM'd to you or whatnot.  
**

**Cheers!**


	13. Superman

**_Superman_**

"Harry?"

"Mm," you sigh sleepily as you spoon me in our marital bed. A couple minutes earlier we had done 'it' for the very first time, and if we are lucky, there will hopefully be a mini-Potter growing inside of me.

"I love you," I say, meaning those three little words with all of my heart.

You wrap your arms around my waist and from the tender and gentle homage your thumbs are playing to my tummy, I know you are also hoping for a mini-Potter in nine months time. "As I love you," you respond.

We snuggle closer together and the scent of you, of us, is all around me making it hard for me to focus and think. It must be affecting you too because it is not long before I am cheekily remarking: "Is that a wand in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

"I'm not wearing any pockets, Gin," you wink.

I blush at your lewd comment like the used-to-be-virgin that I am but the de-viriginized me boldly reaches out and touches your bare skin to check the truthfulness of your words. "Oh," I say. "You're right."

"Like always." You slip down into a more comfortable position, and I quickly join you.

I would reply to your cocky statement but my mum taught me it's not polite to talk when my mouth is full.

.

.

For our honeymoon, we're vacationing down in the Mediterranean with most of the focus of the trip on the islands of Greece and Italy. There's so much sun and sand and fresh, salty air that always has a breeze. June here is like a whole new world from June in Britain. Wildflowers aren't blooming on the beaches of Greece; instead, sea glass glitters along the pristine white shores. And I swear I have never seen such a beautiful, clear blue! Blue is all over the place: on clothes, sparkling in the ocean, reflected in the sky . . . everywhere.

Our trip to America when I graduated Hogwarts made me fall in love with beaches and sun and summer when we travelled to Malibu. My love for everything beach-y has been reawakened during this trip to the beaches along the Mediterranean Sea.

"I want to live here for forever and ever," I say wistfully as we watch the glowing pink blush of the sun fade away into shimmering stardusted and moon-kissed inky darkness on our fourth night here.

You come and stand behind me on the patio of the beach cottage we're renting for the few days that we are in Greece. "I know, darling. But you'd miss your family and Britain. And our children wouldn't be able to go to Hogwarts."

I sigh. "Damn."

You hum your opinion into the side of my neck before kissing me gently. "Maybe a vacation home, Gin. It's only a nights' broom ride away from London."

I turn to you happily, eyes wide with hopefulness. "Really? You'd buy us a little beach cottage here?"

"For you, love, I'd buy you the world if it would make you as happy as you are now."

.

.

Our honeymoon is cut abruptly short when an owl comes in the middle of the night bearing news of our new niece, Charlotte Aubrielle Weasley, Percy's and Audrey's daughter. We leave immediately by Floo Network to go see her and offer our congratulations to my brother and his wife. For a fleeting moment, I see a look of disappointment cloud your features as we hastily pack up the cottage and use our wands to shrink all of our belongings to fit into our pockets. I, however, don't mind having a shorter honeymoon than we originally planned – the way I see it, the rest of my life is going to be a honeymoon with you.

.

.

"Oh, Harry, look at her!" I squeal excitedly as we wave at our niece who is tucked carefully in her mummy's arms. Charlotte blinks clear, big grey eyes at us, obviously wondering who we are.

Audrey smiles wearily from her resting position on the bed in the maternity ward at St Mungo's. "She may look an angel but she's the devil whenever she messes in her knappy."

I laugh and teasingly roll my eyes at Percy's wife. "No, I think you're the sweetest and bestest girl in the world, aren't you?" I coo at Charlotte. "You don't trouble your mummy at all, do you?"

Charlotte gurgles happily at me and then promptly spits up half of her morning milk.

"See?" Audrey sighs but lovingly cleans up after her firstborn. "A devil, I tell you." There is absolutely no sting in her words when she says this.

I look at you and smile winningly. "Now I want my own baby," I say.

You laugh and tug me closer to your side. "You've always wanted a baby," you grin. "And darling, I'm trying my hardest."

Percy immediately yelps. "Aah! I don't want to hear about your sex life! And neither does my daughter, you horny people!"

"Aw, Perce, lighten up," I chuckle. "Don't get your knickers in a knot. And look – Charlotte' s asleep. She could care less about mine and Harry's perfectly wonderful shagging life."

Percy scowls. "Shut up, Ginny."

"Oh, don't be such a prude," I tease which only encourages my brother's face to turn the colour of a ripe tomato.

"Gin," you say and squeeze my hand gently, nonverbally telling me to stop giving my brother a hard time. I pout and shrug. Whatever. No matter how much Percy's changed since his Ministry days, he is still and uptight git about some things.

"Can I hold her?" I ask Audrey.

Audrey nods slowly, her eyes carefully watching me as she passes her freshly-cleaned-of-spit-up daughter over to me. Despite being only a few days old – Percy had sent Errol, that old stupid owl of Ron's, and the idiot birdbrain got lost on his way to Greece delaying the message of Charlotte's birth by a couple of days – Charlotte is heavier than I expected her to be.

"Gin, move your hand under her head; she doesn't have the proper muscles yet to support herself yet," Percy instructs me.

I do as he says and tuck Charlotte securely against my chest. "Oh," I say softly. She cuddles up to me in her sleep. I wish I could know what her new little mind is dreaming. I close my own eyes and rock us gently. I can easily imagine a not-so-distant future of me holding my own child against my breast like so. Looking up at you, I see you've got this tiny smile on your face like you also cannot wait until the day we can hold our own child.

"She's enchanting," I tell Percy and Audrey, eliciting proud smiles from them.

We spend an hour or so in the maternity ward of St Mungo's talking to Percy and Audrey and watching Charlotte. You even hold Charlotte for a bit, and damn, that image of you cradling a baby is so much sexier than watching you shirtless and surfing in Malibu. As we leave, I glimpse the room housing the little premie babies in their tiny incubator cribs. Babies, so many cute and adorable babies with lovely button noses and a world of possibilities waiting for them.

I want my own baby so badly.

.

.

I return to Quidditch practise the following Monday that we come back to Britain from our honeymoon. The team ooh's and aah's over the ring you gave me more than a regular workmate would – which is quite understandable since you kept up with the Quidditch theme you had going on. My engagement ring sits in all its ruby glory on my right hand's ring finger. It is a goblin-and-custom-made golden ring with a ruby the shape of a miniature sized Quaffle signifying the whole 'You are the Chaser who is the Keeper of my heart' idea which you got engraved on the stone/Quaffle ball. My wedding ring on my left hand is even more impressive, though – at an astounding twenty-five karats, the gold ring is crowned by an actual golden Snitch that has been shrunk down to fit atop the ring. And due to the Snitch's flesh memory, the ring only fits on my finger since I am the first person to touch skin to the golden ball. The delicate tiny wings flutter every now and then, tickling my pinkie and middle fingers, and the Snitch is engraved with the words 'You have the portkey to my heart' in flowing, elegant script.

Days later, I find your whole idea of Quidditch-themed rings has been copied by the general Wizarding public who all wants wedding rings just like the celebrities Ginny and Harry Potter. The whole idea of being famous has yet to sink into my mind, and this breach of my privacy has opened my eyes to how reporters like Rita Skeeter will stop at nothing to exploit our 'war hero' lives now.

Whatever, though. I know we'll be able to get through it because we're Ginny and Harry Potter and nothing can stop us when we are together – not even Lord Voldemort. Literally.

.

.

"Hey, Superman, Mum invited us over for Sunday brunch. You up for that tomorrow morning?" I ask you as we're getting ready for bed one Saturday night.

You hold up one finger, signalling me to wait, and finish brushing your teeth. You spit out your toothpaste and run the tap water. After you wipe your face, you nod. "Yeah, sure. It's just a Sunday brunch, though, right? No birthdays or engagements or anniversaries or whatever?"

I shrug from where I am in our closet, changing into my pyjamas. "I have no bloody idea. It could be anything or nothing." I step out of the closet to see you grinning at me. "What?"

"_Superman_?" you ask with a shit-eating grin. "_That's_ what you've been calling me all this time?"

Self-consciously, I nod. "Yeah, so?" Your reaction to finding out your nickname is making me feel embarrassed.

"May I ask why?"

My eyes widen, horrified. "Abso-bloody-lutely not!"

"Is that a challenge?" you ask me, your eyes darkening in anticipation.

I shake my head furiously and flee to our bed, knowing that now you'll never give up from the chase of finding out the meaning behind your nickname. As predicted, you come running after me with a predatory grin and pounce-tackle me onto our bed. Your fingers tickle me mercilessly, and soon I am begging breathlessly for mercy.

"Alright, alright!" I cry out, gasping for air. "You're Superman because you are my superhero. And because you always seem to be saving me from some danger or another. And maybe because you have an alter-ego like Clark Kent – with me you are goofy and adorkable Harry while in public you're the confident war hero – in this case, superhero – who saved the Wizarding world and is the Boy Who Lived. And you look like that Muggle cartoon character. And because you have this hero complex. And because you're Harry and I love you," I rush out to stop you from tickling me anymore.

"Yeah?" you blink down at me, your fingers still, and your face smiling tenderly.

"Yeah," I say and kiss you before turning out the lights and wrapping myself in the blankets as I prepare to go to sleep.

"I already knew that," you admit casually some few minutes later.

"WHAT?!" I screech and bolt upright to flip on the lamp switch. "How?"

You smirk at me, eyes closed nonchalantly. "You had 'Superman' engraved on my wedding ring. I deduced the rest."


	14. You're Not Sirius

**Author's Note: This chapter title is also a play on words ~ You're Not Sirius as in Taylor Swift's song You're Not Sorry and also, you know, You're Not Serious or You're Not Sirius (like he's not the person). Lalala I confuse myself too, so it's okay if you are a little confused right now.**

* * *

**_You're Not Sirius_**

There's a suspicious buzzing noise filling the air. Suddenly, a toddler with messy jet-black hair and sparkling hazel eyes zooms past me, goes on through the family room, and disappears out into the hall, peals of giggles and a breeze of freshly-stirred air following in his wake.

"James! No! Come back!"

After calling to the toddler (who of course, pays me no attention), I hastily gather my hair into a messy ponytail and chance a look over at you where you are lazily reclining in an armchair as you watch the Muggle contraption with moving pictures you can turn on and off with a 'remote control'. "Harry! A little help please?"

You slowly tear your gaze away from the thing you and Hermione call a telly. "Huh? Yeah, honey, that's great," you mumble and resume watching that Muggle sport called rugby. It looks kind of like Quidditch but on the ground.

I growl in exasperation at your royal lazy ass and dash after our two-year-old son who is zooming happily around the house on his toy broomstick while he wreaks havoc. James Sirius Potter, who we were blessed with on March 18th two years ago, is the biggest troublemaker I have ever met. He is the epitome of the two men he's named after. Although only a toddler, I can tell he is going to be a heartbreaker when he grows up, what with those mischievous hazel eyes (a mixture of my brown and your vibrant green) and untidy black hair. James already has a rakish charm to him and has managed to perfect the infamous Potter smirk.

"Gotcha!" I cry out triumphantly when I see my son hovering uncertainly over by the front door. That's when I realise something is wrong; something is terribly wrong.

There is a hooded stranger in a dark cloak standing on our front doorstep. Everything about the person exudes danger and death. I run for James and clutch him to my chest, quickly backing away up the stairs. I see the figure reach into its cloak and pull out a wand – a wand that I had never hoped to see again.

"Harry!" I scream just as the front door is blasted to rubble. Red lights are flashing in sporadic bursts as you and the unknown person battle it out downstairs; I pray that the stranger who is breaking into our home won't resort to a certain green-coloured spell anytime soon.

"Shh, sweetie, shh," I hush to James as I hurriedly rush to the nursery. "I've got you, baby. Everything'll be alright." I pray to Merlin that my words are true and not just a false sense of hope.

The noise is deafening downstairs. There are crashes and bangs and terrifying sounds of defeat on your end.

"Ginny! The Burrow!" I hear you yell out to me.

The tears are starting to flow as my heart clenches in fear. You would have only told me that if you wanted me to take James and Apparate to The Burrow without you.

But I can't Apparate within our house, and the only way to escape our property lines is to jump out of the two-story window in James's nursery. My choices are to stay and wait for the killer to come murder James and I or to jump and risk breaking our necks. Either option is too awful to even consider.

"Mummy?" James asks in fright as the display of lights downstairs starts to subside. Immediately the house grows eerily quiet until all I can hear is the pounding of my heart in my ears. The shadows start to engulf us even though the sun is shining brightly outside.

My head snaps in the direction of the stairs when there is a slow but sure _crrreeeak_ on that one rickety step that I've been trying to get you to fix for ages, letting me know how close he is . . . how much time I have left to live. All of the sudden, I have never been so glad that you did not heed my demands.

"Oh, Godric," I breathe in terror. If I focus hard enough, I can hear his rasping breaths steadily approach the nursery. My body is paralysed in fear but my mind is racing at a hundred kilometres per minute with only one thought resounding in my head: protect James.

The doorknob of the nursery slowly twists and long, pale fingers wrap around the edge of the wood. "Why so scared?" I hear his awful voice cackle out in glee.

I gulp and hold James closer to me. One glance at my son and his terrified wide eyes lets me know that although typically verbose in most situations, he won't be talkative in this one.

I see the infamous death stick before I see him. He slowly raises his wand in a calculating motion, pointing it straight at me. I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting his ugly twisted face to be my last memory. And then I hear it, those last two words that have ended the lives of so many before: "Avada Kedavra!"

There's a sudden burst of a blinding green that sears my eyes even behind my eyelids. It's a beautiful green, a green that reminds me of your irises and how captivated they could make me. It's a green of beginnings and endings of something in between and yet nothing at all. It's the green of the Killing Curse.

And then I am falling, falling down into a deep, unconscious black of nothing . . . .

.

.

One thing I have never asked you about is how your parents died. I know that you've searched far and wide to the answer of that question, and I also know that you are the possessor of the answer after the summer of my Fifth Year when you stopped questioning the circumstances of your parents' death.

But I do know that even though unintentionally, yours and my lives paralleled that of your parents. Your mum was a redhead, just like me. She was immersed with Muggle artefacts all throughout her childhood – as I am, due to Dad's interest about all-things Muggle even though the Weasley's are a Pureblood family. Nobody thought Lily Evans or Ginny Weasley had a chance with a Potter but we proved the world wrong. And we would both gladly die for you, Harry.

What I would really, really like to know about Lily Evans Potter is that when she died, was it your face or James's that she saw before her mind went blank?

I know what my own answer to that question is.

.

.

Floating around in a sea of nothing isn't as cracked up as it is made to be. It's rather boring, if you can believe it. My limbs feel like jelly and my brain is porridge. I guess my toes can be the toast while I am on the subject of breakfast foods. Does a dead person feel hungry? Cos my stomach is making its baby dragon noises, like, _really_ loud. Does a dead person even _feel _anything? What about thinking? I guess it wouldn't be the person feeling anything; it has to be the soul.

Wait, so I'm a soul now? That would explain the empty nothingness I'm in since I would not be able to see or hear as a soul. Feel emotions, perhaps, but none of the other sensory organs would work.

Harry, I don't want to be dead. I don't want to live in a world without you. Where are you? Why can't I find you? Harry?

.

.

I don't know how much time has passed. I don't how much time remains. I don't know anything. I don't know. Who am I?

I. Don't. Know.

I don't like being a soul. I want to be human again.

I close my eyes and count to three. I breathe in, I breathe out. Nothing changes. I'm still trapped all alone in this dark, empty void where you do not exist except for in my memory.

.

.

You never realise how much you love someone until they are gone. You don't realise how much you miss the way they talk animatedly about something as boring as how a Snitch is made (toss me a Quaffle sometime soon, anyone?) or the way there are pillow creases on their face in the morning or how they like their morning tea to have exactly two sugar cubes, a dollop of cream, and five stirs clockwise.

And then, when you are alone with no one to share these memories with anymore, that's when you appreciate the way the sun seems to create a halo of golden light above their head wherever they go; the sound of their voice when they're angry at you but you know you'll end up kissing and making up within a matter of minutes; that look in their eye when they are wrong and you're right but they are so damn stubborn that they refuse to admit it; what a dork they are when they can recite _Quidditch Through The Ages_ verbatim from memory; how sweet and thoughtful and perfect and gentlemanly they are when they insist on opening doors for you and pulling your chair out at the dinner table even though they know you are a devout feminist and can kick their ass in a game of Quidditch despite how bloody brilliant they are at Seeking; and how they promised you that they will love you until the end of time and only you two will remember what once happened in a life so long ago.

I guess that's what love is. Scratch that, I _know_ that's what love is. Because I love you, Harry. Even as a soul, I promise to search for you so we can be together.

You're my other half; my missing puzzle piece; the peanut butter to my jelly; the day to my night; the every-freaking-cliché-you-can-possibly-think-of because that's what we are to each other.

You're the Harry to my Ginny.

As soon as that thought reverberates throughout my mind, a Zen sort of peace echoes throughout my being and I know it's time to stop resisting whatever this oppressive black everything-yet-nothing surrounding is. And so I let go.

.

.

.

.

"Gin? Ginny? Love, wake up, please. You're scaring me."

There's a frantic voice saying something near my left ear. With a great deal of effort, I turn my head towards the noise. A hand is now holding mine.

"If you can hear me, Gin, squeeze my hand," the voice pleads with me.

I can't. I try to do so just to make the sadness and the fear and the deflating hopefulness emanating from this person go away but my hand won't cooperate.

"Ginny," the voice whispers brokenly. "Please, love. You're not serious, are you? I know it is April Fool's Day but this has got to be the worst joke ever played by Merlin. Oh, Godric. Ginny, c'mon, wake up, love. Please please please. Think of the baby, of yourself, of me." Wet drops of grief splatter my wrist where my hand and this person's are joined.

"Mr Potter," I hear a voice say sternly. "Mrs Potter is in a magically-induced coma as a result of early childbirth. There is not much we can do for her besides keep her vitals stable and wait patiently. You're worrying and stressing is not good for her or your unborn baby. Please remain calm until she comes to. Mrs Potter has been through a rough night what with the premature contractions, the magically induced coma, and her hallucinations. It would be best for everyone if you would relax, Mr Potter."

Is this Heaven? I didn't think there would be so much pain and sadness here. I try to open my eyes to see where I am but nothing happens.

There is a faint pressure on my lips, a feather-light stroke brushing my face, tiny little butterfly feet dancing across my mouth. "I love you," you kiss me goodbye.

_No!_ I scream out in my head, frantically clawing to hold onto your hand. But my limbs won't move and slowly but surely your hand slips out of mine leaving me so, so cold. And without your anchor holding me down, I drift back into the nightmare of death where no one can reach me.

* * *

**Author's Note: Hey, there. I didn't intend for this chapter to be so dark or intense but, er, it kind of wrote itself. If you think this chapter doesn't belong in _Superman_, review and let me know and I'll write up a new one. The tone of this chapter is a little out of place compared to the light flirty-ness of this fic, but I think _You're Not Sirius_ captures some good thoughts and feelings Ginny has about her love towards Harry. So, yeah.  
**

**If you need any sort of clarification (I tried to explain things in that last little blurb) ~ No, Ginny is not dead. She's in a hospital because she went into premature labour (the baby is Albus, by the way). And then she blacked out and is in a coma where all those nightmares and intense thoughts occurred. The End.**


	15. Loved You From the Very First Day

**_Loved You From the Very First Day_**

It's green out here. Not an avocado green or even an Avada Kedavra green. It's just . . . green. I think it is nice to be able to look at a colour and simplify it without the poetic claims of likening the green to emeralds or a frog or something natural and ridiculous. But that's just me.

If I _were_ to create a simile about the green surrounding me, I would have to say the green is like the grass underfoot. Then again, I'm just stating the obvious because it _is_ green grass I am talking about. Freshly-mowed lush green grass that you apparently think I smell like. Thanks for that compliment, by the way. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and pretend you think that's the case because I spend so much time out on the Quidditch Pitch. Which, you know, is true and all since that's where I am right now and for most of my days as a Holyhead Harpy Chaser but that is all going to come to an end rather soon, if all goes according to my plan.

You and I are the proud parents of two adorable bouncing baby boys. Well, one is bouncing, the other is a baby. They're both boys, though. And that's about all they have in common personality wise.

James Sirius Potter is a four-year-old troublemaker. I believe I've said that before but with him, I cannot stress that fact enough. He's proud and valiant and noble and his favourite Muggle hero is Superman. He likes the whole idea of saving the world and fighting for the greater good. His personal ethics are outstanding: he knows wrong from right and always picks the morally correct answer in situations. But he's a mischief-hunting-prank-pulling-trouble-making little scoundrel. And his favourite colours are red and gold, if that tells anything about where he'll be Sorted at Hogwarts.

Albus Severus Potter is the complete opposite of his older brother. Two years younger, but so much wiser. Albus is an introverted, observant toddler who thinks before he acts or speaks. He looks like a carbon copy of you while James favours more of his late grandfather and the earlier generations of male Potters. While sweet and thoughtful, there is a little devious streak inside Albus – most likely cultivated and encouraged by James. There is a calculated cunningness inside his two-year-old mind but he isn't selfish or stubborn at all. He's just Albus: vigilant and pragmatic. And his favourite superhero is Batman.

And the two of my sons together – plus the chore of having to keep you in line from time to time – is making me feel like there are grey hairs on my head even though I know that's not true. I'm in my late twenties and much too young to be going grey. But being a mum and an international travelling pro-Quidditch Chaser is taking its toll on me which is why I am stepping into the Head Office of the Holyhead Harpies to turn in my official letter of resignation.

It's for the best. My children need me to devote my time solely to them, and my Quidditch glory days are a sacrifice I can make for the growth and development of James and Albus. I can always pick up a broomstick again but I'll never be able to regain the days of the childhood of my two sons.

.

.

Life with you and the two boys is everything I could ask for. You followed through on your promise of buying a home for me on the beach, and during the summers we go to our other house, a quaint little cottage on the shoreline of Greece overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. Sure, the Greek economy is in shambles but the view of the sea is priceless. You train our two little rascals to be Quidditch stars, and more often or not I see James chasing after a Quaffle while Albus flits about the premises, presumably in search of a Snitch.

Once a month, we troop over to the Burrow so Mum can fuss over our boys and we can say hi to the family. There are too many aunts and uncles; nieces and nephews; sisters and brothers; original family and extended family; and cousins for me to keep track of or remember all their names. It's a good thing Weasley's have the trademark ginger hair; otherwise I fear I might not even remember who my own siblings' children are. Then again, the red hair makes it awfully hard to distinguish whose children are whose.

Once-a-month-Sunday-brunch at the Burrow is always pancakes – I make sure to leave out a few chocolate chips for you and the boys who seemed to have inherited your obsession with anything chocolate. And then, of course, the infamous Weasley Quidditch tournaments occur later in the day before everyone has to return to their busy lives. Thank Godric nobody uses a Pygmy Puff for a Quaffle anymore.

James and George have hit off extraordinarily. My oldest son is the tester for Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes newest products – given that I approve the product before James tests it out of course. I'm not quite fond of the Bubbling Snot Rockets but I might be persuaded to let James try it out sometime in the near future. For now, though, I only approve of Weasley products that do not bubble or pop or could cause damage to the person using it. Which is, you know, basically all of the merchandise.

Albus is more interested in following my father around and questioning about all of the Muggle artefacts lying around the Burrow. My youngest son's favourite words these days seem to be either "No!" or "Why?" and both phrases are steadily utilised every time Albus opens his mouth.

Both my sons are the sun and stars in my sky. And you will always remain the superhero that flies me up above the clouds despite sleepless nights tending to our children or long hard days at the Ministry.

.

.

I'm pregnant again. I never thought I could be after the frightening experience of falling into a coma and the massive amounts of internal bleeding when I was carrying Albus, but by some miracle, I have been blessed with another child.

The Medi-Witches have told us it's a girl. Already, you and I have her name picked out. Actually, we've always had our daughter's name picked out.

I can't wait for the day Lily Luna Potter enters the magical world.


	16. Nineteen Years Later

******Author's Note: Howdy, ya'll! Superman is #16 on the Speak Now: Target Edition CD, so how fitting is it that this story has 16 chapters?! Also, sixteen chapters happened because of the every-other-day uploading schedule that I utilised for this fic. Anyways, I want to say thank you so so much for being encouraging, sweet, and thoughtful in your reviews and for reading this story until the very end. You guys were my superheros for this past month; I loved you all from the very first day ~ xoxo wouldtheywriteasongforyou**

******PS: It is 19 years later after the War like in the _Deathly Hallows'_ epilogue. Duh.**

******PPS: This is my first complete story. Originally _Superman _was supposed to be just a short collection of Ginny's thoughts (more like the one chapter stories I write) but this fic took a life of its own and evolved into this 50K sugary and sappy and maple syrup-y chocolate chip pancake of wholehearted goodness. Cheers to me!**

* * *

**_Nineteen Years Later_**

"Mummy! Daddy! Come quick; we're gonna be late!" squeals Lily frantically. She bursts into our bedroom that overlooks the skyline of Muggle London. Out in the foggy distance is the distinct sight of Tower Bridge and the London Eye. But my sleep-addled eyes are more focused on the caterwauling of my youngest child.

"Sweetie, the Hogwarts Express doesn't leave until much, much later," I placate her, sitting up in bed as I wipe the sleep from my eyes. "And even if we _are_ late, Daddy can always drive you."

"Daddy can't drive me!" she insists, her lower lip quivering. "I remember those stories about him during his Second Year when he missed the train and got stuck in the Whomping Pillow!"

"Willow," you correct her gently. She's apparently woken you up as well. "And I promise, Lily, we are not going to be late. I can't have Albus missing his first day."

Lily scowls at this. "When will it be _my_ first day?" she whines. "I want to go to Hogwarts _now_!"

"Shut up, you cry baby," mumbles our eldest child as he enters into our bedroom, obviously woken up by his sister's screeching. "Hogwarts isn't that great, you know."

You and I share a look at James's obvious lie. We both know that he is going through a phase where he has to look cooler than he actually is, and to do so, he needs to act bored and like he doesn't care half the time. Third Years, these days.

Then, in comes our middle child. Albus Severus Potter is _exactly_ like you, just miniaturised. His rumpled hair is as messy as ever, bright green eyes are crusted with sleep, and his round wire-framed glasses are on crooked. "Morning, Mum. Dad."

"Hey, you," I say in greeting to Albus. I stretch and get out of bed, scooping up Lily in my arms. "Oof, sweetie, you are getting much too big for this," I laugh.

She smiles up at me with her beautiful, brown eyes that are in the same exact shape as yours and Lily Evans Potter's but are coloured in my shade of brown. "I want to go to Hogwarts," she tells me as I carry her out of the bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen. Behind me, I hear the tell-tale bickering of my two sons as they follow me to where I am about to make breakfast for their bottomless stomachs. James and Albus have definitely inherited the Weasley gene for needing to eat twenty-four seven.

"Two more years," I tell my eight-year-old daughter as I drop her off on a barstool next to our elevated granite counter where we dine at. Lily's birthday is on September 9th which is close enough to the school's cut-off deadline that Headmistress McGonagall wouldn't make Lily wait another year for her acceptance letter to Hogwarts. Lily will just be the youngest of her class, although you and I have confidence that her brains make up for her small physique.

I start preparing up a batch of chocolate chip pancakes while Albus and James continue to argue as they slide onto their respective stools. You walk on into the kitchen then, and help out with breakfast by making the bacon and veggie sausage for Lily who is a devout vegetarian ever since she watched those Muggle Disney princess films and learned that animals have feelings too.

"Kids, do your chores," I instruct as I ladle the batter onto the griddle. James sighs and goes to unload the dishwasher. Albus does his chore of setting the table with much more grace than his older brother who is hap-hazardously putting dishes away every which way. Lily swivels on her barstool while she colours her newest drawing. Her chore is to clean up after meals, so she spends the time beforehand working on her artistic projects. I'm hoping that her aptitude for colours and patterns will carry over into outstanding brilliance in Potions although I am quite sure Professor Slughorn will like her because she is a Potter no matter how extraordinary her talents are.

A few minutes later, you and I serving up breakfast to our three children. "Eat fast," I say with a half-joking smile. "We don't want to be late, do we?"

"No!" our three children chorus, much to yours and my amusement.

"We won't be late," you promise me as you kiss me good morning.

"We better not be," I grin, kissing you back while our children yell out a round of ew's. "You'd devastate our kids, if we are."

.

.

We make our way through King's Cross Station, gathering much attention and confused looks from the Muggles travelling to and fro in their busy lives. The air is cold to the touch but it feels warm to me because something about it feels like home somehow. I reminisce about seven years of September firsts, the excitement to be leaving home and going to Hogwarts, my other home as well as my school. And now, two of our children will be revelling in that experience as well.

You and I are pushing James's and Albus's trolleys that are filled with their trunks and their owls that we had bought them at Diagon Alley. Lily is clinging to your sleeve, going on and on tearfully about how she wishes it is her and not Albus who gets to go to Hogwarts this year.

"I _won't_! I _won't_ be in Slytherin!" comes the vehement cry of our newest First Year in the family.

I look behind me at the instigator. "James, give it a rest!"

"I only said he _might_ be," says James with an impish grin directed at his younger brother. "He _might_ be in Slyth –"

I give my eldest troublemaker the best Molly Weasley glare that I can muster. Immediately, the scoundrel falls silent. Once James catches sight of the barrier between platforms nine and ten, he gives Albus a self-assured look and grabs his trolley from me. "S'later!" he calls to Albus as he breaks into a run and vanishes through the brick wall.

"You'll write to me, won't you?" Albus asks you and me as soon as James is out of earshot. Oh, Albus, wanting to look so much stronger and tougher than he actually is just to get approval from his older brother.

I nod my head. "Every day, if you want us to."

Quickly, Albus corrects me. "Not _every_ day. James says most people only get letters from home about once a month."

I stifle my laughter and inform him seriously that James actually got a letter three times a week last year.

"And you don't want to believe everything he tells you about Hogwarts," you interject; wanting to boost your son's confidence and let Albus become an independent being. "He likes a laugh, your brother." The proud thought that is echoing in both yours and my mind is that James is fully living up to the reputation of the man he's named after.

We follow James through the barrier and I relish the look of awe and happiness as you step out onto Platform Nine and Three Quarters. We've been here countless times but the magic of this place never seems to fade away nor does that first wondrous feeling of stepping into the magical world after we've remained in Muggle London for so long.

.

.

Suddenly, scarlet steam is billowing out of the Hogwarts Express as it prepares to leave the station. James is already on the train after giving you and I hurried goodbyes in an effort to look cool and not need his parents anymore. It breaks my heart a little to see my eldest son grow up so fast. You and Albus are having a little private chat about the Sorting a little ways over – I know Albus is terrified of being Sorted into the wrong House after all of his brother's negative comments about Slytherin; James is a true Gryffindor, through and through.

Albus comes trotting back, a more relaxed expression on his face although he still looks mildly shocked that he is actually getting to go to Hogwarts this year. I kiss him goodbye and pretend not to notice when he unobtrusively wipes away my kiss from the side of his cheek. "See you at Christmas," I smile with tears in my eyes.

"Bye, Al," you say as Albus hugs you. "Don't forget Hagrid's invited you to tea next Friday. Don't mess with Peeves. Don't duel anyone until you've learned how. And don't let James wind you up."

He nods his head in understanding and whispers to you: "Love you, Dad." Louder: "Love you too, Mum." And then he jumps onto a carriage and I close the door behind him. Students' heads poke out as they try to get a final glimpse of their parents, of us the famed war-heroes, and to call out last-minute reminders and I love you's.

You keep pace with the train as it pulls out of the station, smiling and waving farewell to Albus who has lingered at the windows longer than James did. Albus's face is aglow with excitement at the prospect of Hogwarts and already, he looks different from the scared boy who boarded the train some thirty seconds ago.

"He'll be alright," I murmur to you, witnessing Albus's transformation already. I can tell he'll grow out of his shell and start the process of discovering himself at Hogwarts just like you did all those years ago.

"I know he will." You lower you hand that had waved our sons goodbye and touch the scar on your forehead absentmindedly. You grab hold of Lily and hoist her up onto your hip, tickling her sides gently to distract yourself from the tears of watching your favourite child – don't deny it because you and I know it's true – grow up ready to experience what the magical world has to offer him.

I bite my lip to stop the smile from growing on my face. Even though there is no threat of Lord Voldemort anymore, you still haven't lost your persona as Superman which is obvious through the way you are Lily's hero for doting on her all the time as well as Albus's for understanding him on a deep level without making fun of him and are also James's hero for helping him get into mischief and covering him during his harmless pranks on Ron and George.

But most of all, you're _my_ hero which is evident in everyday as we both profess our love for each other even nineteen years later.


End file.
